A World Ahead
by junejuly15
Summary: 'If I were to kiss you now, would you let me' Sherlock whispered - 'Try me,' John growled ... A World Ahead is a Johnlock-fix-it-fic, following Sherlock and John from A Study in Pink to His Last Vow. Missing Scenes and plot holes will be filled, and in the end everything will be all right :) Chapter 9: His Last Vow - A truly happy ending
1. A Study in Pink

**A Johnlock-fix-it-fic, that's what I wanted to write. A fic to ease my pain, a pain that I feel when I watch _His Last Vow_, a pain that I feel when I see pining Sherlock and John who seems to be so ignorant. **

**So, here we are, and in _A World Ahead_ I am going to present some of the missing scenes, fill some of the plot holes of each episode, starting with _A Study In Pink_ and moving up to _His Last Vow_. **

**Believe me, fellow Johnlockers, this time everything will turn out all right :)**

**Enjoy reading!**

* * *

** A World Ahead**

**_1. A Study in Pink_**

'I can't believe they actually get away with such utter nonsense.'

'Hmm?'

John Watson looked up from his dim sum platter. So far they had sat in silence and the piping hot food had demanded all his attention.

'This!'

Sherlock Holmes placed a small sheet of slightly greasy paper in front of John. A fortune cookie quote. John picked it up and read.

_A new wardrobe brings great joy and change to your life._

He snorted and glanced at the impeccably dressed man sitting opposite him. A man he had met barely two days ago. A man who had deduced him and his past as if he was transparent, with whom he had chased a murder suspect through London's streets, a man who had cured his limp as if it was child's play - a man he had killed for.

John dipped his chin, but refused to dwell on that dark moment roughly two hours ago. He looked up again and made sure to hold Sherlock's unwavering gaze, and slowly a smile started to spread over his face. A smile, immediately mirrored on the other man's features, and John realised this time it was almost, but not quite devoid of smugness.

'Do you think those fortune cookie companies employ writers to come up with this sort of mindless babble?'

'I guess, it's one way of making a living ... so, yeah, I think...'

John put down the thin paper he had been holding all the time. He cleared his throat, suddenly unable to go on. Talking about the inane words of wisdom found in fortune cookies, doing something as mundane as eating dim sums in a Chinese restaurant after all that had occurred tonight seemed quite surreal.

Paradoxically though, this was the first moment in months John felt like himself again. Alive and breathing, a weight off his chest... John winced inwardly about this cliche. He glanced at Sherlock and tried again.

'I'm quite sure there's a job description that reads _fortune-cookie-quote-writer_. Bloody hell, there might even be university course for all I know. So, yeah ...'

His smile was a bit forced now, but Sherlock was not paying attention to the expressions on his face anymore. His fingers were toying with the remaining cookies in the plastic basket.

'Clearly. And anybody who comes up with such gems of wisdom deserves an outrageous amount of money thrown at them. Let's see what else we've got, shall we?'

Sherlock picked up another fortune cookie from the basket and unceremoniously crushed it. With long, deft fingers he fished the thin paper out of the crumbly remains of the cookie. His left eyebrow rose, giving his lean and pale face a haughty expression. One corner of his lips curled upwards in a mocking smile.

' _A single conversation with a wise man is better than ten years of study_. Well, what do you make of that one, John?'

'Doesn't sound quite as daft as the first.'

John took a swig of his beer and grimaced. The amber liquid had gone stale and the remaining alcohol did not tickle his tastebuds half as much as he would have wanted it to.

'Are you?'

'Am I what?'

'A wise man. I'd like to make sure that this meal is not an entire waste of time.'

'Charming,' John remarked drily and took another swig of his stale beer.

Sherlock did not answer, but settled back in his seat, watching John attentively. The stare out of bright and intelligent eyes was piercing, making John twitch uncomfortably on his seat. It felt like an examination, an inspection, a thorough as well as an unsettling one. And what made this moment even more disturbing was the fact that John actually wanted to pass it.

'I'd say so, yes.'

'Tell me about Afghanistan.'

'Not much to say. Served Queen and country, got shot, got sent home, not much more to it.'

'Hm,' Sherlock narrowed his eyes and sat forward, thus increasing the feeling of being scrutinised in John. In an unconscious attempt to redress the balance and to create a bit more distance John sat back in his chair.

'No, there's more. You suffered, true. That much is apparent. You did not so much suffer from the actual wound or the pain inflicted by it, though, but from the fact that it removed you from the action, from life as a soldier, from your work...' he cocked his head and paused a moment. John could not suppress the feeling that he was doing it for effect. A little smile played around Sherlock's full lips. 'No! Not just _work_, from your _vocation_. You always wanted to be a doctor and you always wanted to be an army doctor. Your therapist got it quite right when she diagnosed post traumatic stress. But one thing she got clearly wrong. You were barely affected by shooting that cabbie, so obviously you have nerves of steel and what's more, you did not hesitate to kill a man to save me. You don't fear action or excitement, no, you crave the thrill, you need the blood pumping through your veins, you need the distraction. You need it like the light in your life. Am I right?'

Biding his time John took another swig from the bottle, and then he nodded.

'Bloody hell, you're worse than my therapist.'

'Obviously.'

The smile intensified and then Sherlock quickly leaned forward, invading John's private space.

'But am I right?'

'Spot on.'

Now the smile definitely was smug and John could not help but chuckle.

'Another one?

John nodded and chose a fortune cookie. Sherlock did the same and smiled when he read the words of wisdom. With an elegant, almost femine motion he placed the paper on the table. His eyebrows raised mockingly when he invited John to read.

_Enjoyed the meal? Buy one to go too._

John dutifully grinned and opened his fortune cookie to place the greasy paper next to Sherlock's. It read:

_There is a prospect of a thrilling time ahead for you._

**oooOOOooo**

They walked the two hundreds yards down Baker Street in silence. The Chinese patron had politely, but adamantly, urged them to take their remaining fortune cookies and leave as he wanted to shut his restaurant for tonight. It was past two and Baker Street was quiet, but not entirely deserted, not even at this hour. A lonely cyclist idled drunkenly down the street, and in one of the little shops the lights were still on.

John and Sherlock walked close to each other, almost touching, neither of them inclined to speak. John was the less attentive of the two, the excitement of today finally taking its toll and so he almost bumped into Sherlock when he stopped in front of 221B and turned around to face him.

'Well?' Sherlock said nervously.

'I think I should get back home,' John straightened his back and vaguely gestured over his shoulder, indicating that his home was still somewhere else and not yet behind this brick facade.

'You could,' Sherlock shrugged, trying to hide the sudden agitation coursing though him. 'But you don't have to.'

He paused, biting his lip, taking a moment. Anything to help to make his suggestion sound less like an invitation, but he failed miserably.

'Actually I could need a helping hand in getting the kitchen back in order. You know Scotland Yard's drugs squad has been and they tend to be less than meticulous when it comes to cleaning up the mess they've made.'

'Not the first time they've been?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, 'No.'

John nodded and looked around, trying to bring himself to accept this inviation - this way out, this excuse for not going back to his sad habitation, this bedsit which was as depressing as it was lonely. Of course, he would have to go back eventually, maybe in an hour or so to sleep a bit and most importantly to pack his stuff. But he was loath to part with Sherlock Holmes just yet, loath to be alone again.

'Yeah - I don't see why not?'

John smiled and Sherlock clapped his hands together.

'Excellent!'

** oooOOOooo**

'Here?'

'No, over there, with the petri dishes.'

They did not talk much, just tried to bring the semblance of order to the kitchen. Not that it had been overly tidy before Lestrade and his men had been as Sherlock had moved in only a few days ago and boxes were standing around, filling all available spaces and John still would have to bring his own stuff. Not that he had much, neither his army days nor his civilian life had ever been marked by opulence, but he was thirty-seven years old and he had some burdens to carry, literally and otherwise.

Working with Sherlock, ranging petri dishes, cups and plates, was calming, was the perfect antidote to the thrill of this evening when he had saved the life of this man he barely knew, when he had killed for him, when they had giggled at the crime scene, high on adrenaline, sharing a moment of utmost intimacy. John felt his stomach clench and a blush warm his cheeks and turned away to hide it. He blushed because he realised that this moment had been far more intimate than most of the _romantic_ encounters he had had in the past months and years. Nervously he cleared his throat and stuffed a few kitchen towels with vigour into a drawer.

Sherlock straightened his back when he heard John clear his throat, a noise that he had come to recognise as a kind of filler, a kind of displacement activity for John whenever he got nervous or flustered. It was one of the first things he had noticed.

_Flustered? Interesting! _

Sherlock's hands dropped to his sides and he stopped pretending to range the slides and all his other chemical paraphernalia when he saw John's unease in the shape of a flush creeping up his neck. He just watched.

_So, you've got a boyfriend?_

_No_

_Right - okay. You are unattached, just like me ..._

Sherlock lightly shook his head to chase away the memory of that conversation at Angelo's and dropped his gaze - _Why would he think of that now? Ah, yes, the blushing_ - Obviously, John was interested in something Sherlock could not offer.

It could not be helped, he would have to try to keep this infatuation in check when they lived together. It would not do to have John moping around like a lovesick puppy. At least, his retort to John's insinuations had been the only right one, in fact John's obvious interest had compelled Sherlock to immediately build a barrier, hopefully one that would prove insurmountable.

_I'm married to my work, John _

Sherlock was a bit annoyed by the strange turn this conversation had taken. That was one of the reasons why he usually refrained from chatter, from empty chitchat, from ordinary people. They were easy to read, they were superficial and yet so hedonistic, always putting the matters of the heart over those of the mind. _For God's sakes!_ They were so dull, so boring.

Despite this slightly irritating note, tonight had been far from boring, though, and Sherlock was not sure what to make of that. John and him would be living together from now on, share a flat, share the costs, but this was an arrangement born out of necessity, not sentimentality, nothing more and nothing less.

_But_ - if tonight was anything to go by - they could indeed work together. And as Sherlock had made sure that they both knew where they stood, no sentimental nonsense between them, they could concentrate on the really important things. John had been a good assistant to Sherlock, he had complemented him when they had read the crime scene, John had been easy to talk to - John had not been dull.

Sherlock glanced at his flatmate again, who had turned away from him, only offering him his back to deduce. Yes, John might be indeed something ... _good_ in his life. A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine and he arched his brows. Biting his lips he turned away to distract himself, to do something, anything to stop him from deducing his body's reaction, and so he grabbed one of his suitcases from the hall.

'I'll just range some of my clothes.'

John stopped colour coding the tea towels in the drawer and turned around, his eyes following Sherlock carrying the heavy suitcase through the kitchen and the small hall to a wooden door. Sherlock opened it and stepped inside another room.

'Oh, that's _your_ bedroom, is it?'

'Yes.'

'Right - okay. Where's mine then?'

'Upstairs, John. Since I cured your limp that should not pose a problem.'

'Of course not. No problem at all.'

John stretched his back. Tiredness was slowly creeping back into his bones, not much left of the energy that had driven him on the last hours. He winced when his shoulder protested, but a grin lit up his face when he became aware of the spark of life that was burning timidly inside him, despite the tiredness and the pain in his cramped muscles, and he noticed the hunger for more of what he had just experienced. The sheer pleasure and the elation of finally being able to move on.

Leaning against the counter, John crossed his arms in front of his chest. Yes, he would move on. In London, in this flat, in 221B Baker Street. And he would not be alone anymore, not alone, but together with Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and the most fascinating madman he had ever encountered.

John uncrossed his arms and rolled his shoulders a few times. Sighing he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and hesitated when his right hand touched something small. He fished out a piece of thin paper and chuckled when he read - _There is a prospect of a thrilling time ahead for you._

Maybe for once the prediction of a fortune cookie would come true after all.

**oooOOOooo**

That night John never made it back to his lonely bedsit. Instead he spent what was left of it sitting in the old battered armchair opposite Sherlock, talking about nothing and the world.

What an achievement this was for an ex-army doctor - who had trust issues, had never even talked to his neighbours, who had nothing that even came close to a sane relationship with his family, and had stubbornly worn his loneliness like a badge of honour these past months - and a self-proclaimed sociopath, who had trouble feigning interest in anything else but his work, who did not have one meaningful relationship under his belt and no one he could call his friend.

In those early morning hours Sherlock told John about murderers and blackmailers, the science of deduction and his attachment to Scotland Yard. And Sherlock would listen attentively when John spoke about his time in Afghanistan and the past months in London.

Late, very late, they would be done talking and Sherlock would throw a blanket over John who had fallen asleep and was snoring quietly. And Sherlock would resume his position in the opposite chair, long, slender fingers steepled underneath his chin and his clear eyes would focus on the peacefully sleeping form of his new flatmate.

'You are interesting, John Watson,' he muttered and smiled, in equal measure fascinated and intrigued. 'You are very interesting indeed.'

* * *

**A/N**

Thank you very much for reading and please tell me what you think?

I have ideas for the next chapters (episodes), but I'm open for suggestions as to which missing scenes I should/could write.

See you soon :)

JJ

P.S: The fortune cookies quotes are all real ones :)


	2. The Blind Banker

**The Blind Banker**

Sherlock stayed very close to John, itching to touch, ready to support his flatmate when necessary. John had trouble walking up the stairs to their flat and stopped on the landing, leaning heavily against the bannister. Immediately Sherlock's hand shot forward.

'Don't!' John warned. 'I'm all right.'

'You're clearly not.'

'I already told you and I hate to repeat myself, I am just _fine_.'

Of course he was not. Sherlock decided to reason with John, although the anger emanating from his flatmate was palpable in the cool, musty air of their staircase.

'Look, John, you were beaten, you were kicked and you were bleeding profusely,' Sherlock's was voice was low and insistent. 'I saw what she did to you ...'

'Oh, you did, didn't you?' John looked up at Sherlock who was taken aback by the hostility in those dark blue eyes. 'Can I take it that you were busy _observin_g before you found a moment to interfere and free us. Sarah and me?'

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly when John so casually mentioned the name of his date.

'I had to assess the situation. Clearly, nobody could expect me to just wade in. This woman was armed and I had no way of knowing how many of her assassins were hidden in the shades of the vaults.'

'Nonsense,' John shook his head, wincing with pain. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, letting the dizziness pass. Sherlock noticed and his hand shot out to steady John. The slight shift in the air told John all he needed to know.

'Right, Sherlock. Let me make this clear. I am okay, I am not dizzy and I am definitely, definitely NOT going to go to A&E.'

'But ..'

'No, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's hand still hovered in mid-air, prepared to underline his concern by touching John's arm, by helping him. When he saw John's stern and angry expression his determination withered and his hand sank to his side, his fingers worrying the seams of his coat pocket for the lack of something more sensible to do.

John nodded curtly at Sherlock, and brushing past him, he slowly made his way up the remaining stairs. He walked into the dark living room and sat down on the sofa with a grunt. Sherlock slowly followed him, taking off his scarf and coat on the way. Hesitating a second he then dropped everything on the low coffee table in front of the sofa and turned away to switch on a lamp.

It was a sad picture which the dim light revealed to him. Eyes closed, John was tiredly leaning back on their battered leather sofa. A pained expression disfigured his pale face, forming a stark contrast to his adamant claim to be _just fine_. His breathing was more laboured now and when he moved, he winced, sharply sucking in his breath.

'John,' Sherlock tried again, sitting down next to John. 'You are quite clearly not fine. Let me call a doctor ...'

'I _am_ a doctor! And I tell you that I am fine! Now, do me a favour and leave me alone for a bit. Sherlock, please!'

It was ridiculous, really. This whole conversation. It was so obvious! John was injured, he was in pain and of course he should have someone take a look at the gash on his temple that was oozing blood again. _And_ at the one or two ribs that might be cracked, if the way John winced when he moved and how he tried to keep his breathing shallow were anything to go by. It was utterly ridiculous that he would be so stubborn, so utterly childish.

'John, this is ridiculous,' Sherlock said, growing a tad impatient. 'Let me at least see to your head wound, you're bleeding all over your jacket.'

'Don't be such an old woman,' John touched a hand to his temple and shuddered when he saw that it came away bloodied. 'All right,' he conceded tiredly.

Sherlock was relieved to hear the anger gone from John's words, but was alarmed by the slurry tiredness that was creeping into his words now. But there was no time to think about that and Sherlock got up, standing next to the sofa for a moment, studying the pale face of his friend.

'You will need my medical bag,' John said. 'We don't have supplies left in the kitchen. Everything you'll need is in my ...'

'Don't worry, John. I know exactly where it is.'

'How? Bloody _hell, _Sherlock!' Despite John's obvious distress, there was still a steely edge to his voice. 'It's in my wardrobe, next to my jumpers ...'

But Sherlock did not answer. He had already turned and was running up the stairs to John's bedroom. Not that John ecpected him to reply. Sherlock, he had come to learn the hard way, was extremely good in only hearing what he wanted to hear.

'Sherlock? Did you hear me?' John called again nonethless, and then strained his ears. He could make out the muffled noise of things being thrown carelessly onto the floor in his room above, followed by a triumphant _Got it!_ and then the rapid steps down the stairs.

Sherlock was sitting down next to John again in no time and opened the battered leather bag _- John's - a gift - a graduation gift - from his father? - cherished - battered _- _important_ - All those deduction were flickering unbidden through Sherlock's brain, muddying his perception of the here and now and he lightly hit the palm of his right hand against his temple _Focus! _he muttered and John turned to him.

'What?'

'Nothing. So, what do I need to do?'

'Clean the wound first.'

Sherlock quickly found the disinfectant and used a wipe, generously doused with the clear liquid, to clean the edges of the wound, carefully wiping away the blood. John bit his lips and tilted his head just so. Sherlock would never admit to it out loud, but he felt rather insecure, touching another person, touching John, being so close, even if it was for medical reasons and his body stiffened. _Focus!_ he muttered again, reprimanding himself.

'There's patches in the bag.' John instructed him. 'You need to be careful when applying it or the wound will not close properly and you will leave me with a scar.'

John felt Sherlock hesitate and almost grinned, 'Just joking.'

'But it's not a joke, John. Wound repair is a very complex matter, so if I do it incorrectly, you will be indeed left with a scar.'

'Nonsense, Sherlock ... just get on with it.'

'Right.'

'And do get me some painkillers, the strong ones, while you're at it. Two, and a glass of water.'

**oooOOOooo**

Sherlock was staring.

His gaze was fixed on the reflection in the mirror oppposite the sofa he was sitting on. Only the small lamp on the desk was burning, giving the whole tableau an intimate air.

He was undeniably transfixed by the sight, and almost paralysed by the impact it had on him. He dared not move an inch lest he should disturb John. John whose head had sunken onto Sherlock's shoulder and who was fast asleep.

The painkillers had worked their magic and after maybe ten or fifteen minutes of strained silence John had relaxed and fallen asleep. On the sofa, in his jacket, because John had been adamant that he would not go to bed just yet, stubborn really, and so they had both remained in the dimly-lit living room. Awkwardly sitting next to each other in silence.

Sherlock had not dared leaving his flatmate alone, of course not, he might have been uncomfortable or in need of help when he woke up and so he had remained seated next to John, ignoring the discomfort of being wedged into the corner of the sofa and serving as a cushion for John's head.

He had filled this unexpected repose with reliving the interesting moments of the case, filing snippets of the fight away in his mind place, and that done, had eventually checked the messages on his mobile phone.

But now Sherlock was done with everything else and merely observed.

Observed the reflection of sleeping John, studied his handsome face which was relaxed and peaceful now, no trace of the anger left that had been the loud companion of his conscious state. And Sherlock was thankful for the peaceful silence.

Why had John been angry at all? Granted, he had taken a bit of time to come for them, but John must certainly see that he had had to deduce where the abductor could have taken him and Sarah. It had hardly been a difficult deduction that the code he had just cracked with the help of _London A-Z_ was the key. And that of course he had hurried once he had known exactly where to look for them.

_For God's sakes_, if John had not been so obsessed with his latest conquest, so eager to get somewhere with her, he might have come with him in the first place and the Chinese assassin would not have found him in 221B. But John had chosen dull conversation and a grope on the sofa with a woman over solving the riddle with Sherlock. So, it stood to reason that if anybody had the right to be angry, it had to be him, not John!

And what about that incident with Sebastian? That morning in the bank which had marked the starting point of this case. Sherlock had introduced him to Sebastian - _This is my friend, John Watson_ - and John had been very quick to correct him - Not friend, but _colleague_.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment - _Don't become involved!_ - And to be fair, why dwell on that particular incident when John was right, of course. Sherlock was not John's friend, he was his flatmate and colleague, they shared the flat and the rent and they solved crimes together. That was what worked for them and that was what he wanted and therefore a, purely hypothetical, personal side of their arrangement should never enter the equation - clearly, _colleague_ was the correct term then.

Sherlock bit his lip and glanced at John whose breathing was very regular and deep now. And then he knew what the next logical step had to be.

**oooOOOooo**

'Sherlock, how did I get ...?' John gestured over his shoulder towards the stairs.

'I took you.'

'How?'

'I carried you, obviously. You were sleeping like a log. It was impossible to rouse you.'

'Right - Okay.' John nodded once, then frowned. 'You carried me up the stairs? Alone?'

'Mrs Hudson was out, otherwise I would have asked her to assist. Glad you're feeling better.'

'Right.' John cleared his throat. 'Did you ... ?'

'I undressed you, yes. I could hardly put you in bed in your dirty and bloodstained clothes.'

'So, you saw me... I was ...'

'Don't fret John. You know I am not interested in anything sexual, so my movements were very much clinical and your virtue is entirely intact.'

'Right ... Good.' John nodded and then tried to smile his embarrassment away. 'Not that I care. I mean we are both grown men, and it's not as if was interested in men ...'

'You're not.'

'Yes ... No! I am not gay, Sherlock.'

'Hm,' Sherlock harrumphed, seemingly fascinated by the morning paper.

'What is that supposed mean? This _hmm_?' John was flustered, by the whole conversation, by the whole situation to be honest.

'Nothing. I was merely commenting on the fact that you are not interested in men and that I am not interested in you.'

'Oh - It's good to be honest, I guess.' John turned to the kitchen, but something made him confront Sherlock again.

'Just to get this out of the way once and for all. Do you feel _anything_, Sherlock? Anything at all? Have you _ever_ felt anything? What's the matter with this heart of yours? Sometimes I wonder if you have one at all.'

Sherlock was silent and for a moment John regretted what he had just said, feared that he had overstepped the mark.

'You want to know what is the matter with me? You want to know if I have a heart, what's in it?'

Sherlock's choice to repeat everything John had just asked and his tone of voice, detached and cold, made John flinch and he looked away.

'Well. I can tell you that there's no love, there's no light, it's just grey and dull and boring.'

'Why?'

'Because that's the the way I am, John. There's not much more to me, Im afraid.'

'No!' John shook his head. 'No, you're wrong. Everybody is able to love.'

'I take it that you labour under the romantic misapprehension that sentiment is something to be desired and therefore wanted. Conclusion: I have to disappoint you.'

'You don't want any of it then?'

'I told you I was married to my work, John.'

'Yes, so you did.' John felt cold, beaten in a way, rejected and angry, and that's why he lashed out. 'How does it feel to be so self-centred? In a world of your own? Doesn't it get a bit cold? Or lonely?' John exhaled and dipped his chin. '_Jesus_, I'm glad not everybody is as adverse to feelings as you are.'

Sherlock raised a mocking eyebrow, '_Sarah_.'

'Yes, Sarah!'

'And you are you sure you are going to meet her again, after this rather disastrous first date?'

'Yes, I should very much hope so, in fact I am going to call her right now. Thank you very much for reminding me.'

'You're welcome,' Sherlock mumbled and concentrated on the newspaper again, trying to convince himself that the turn this conversation had taken was exactly what he had wanted all along.

How come that he felt so hollow inside then?

* * *

**A/N**

Thank you very much for reading, and it would be so lovely if you told me what you think? :)

Any requests for the next chapters?

And thank you very much for the alerts, reviews and favourites, you really, really made my day!

JJ xx


	3. The Great Game

**The Great Game**

_Last night a new case rocked Baker Street - quite literally. I was not at home, but over at Sarah's because Sherlock and I had a silly row about the sun and the moon and that he apparently does not know the simplest things ... well, it does not matter, why exactly we rowed, but it resulted in me leaving the flat. _

_Coming back this morning I found parts of the street covered in debris and the building opposite 221B badly damaged. When I looked up our house, I saw that all the windows had been shattered by the impact of the explosion and walking through our front door I feared the worst._

_Thank God, Sherlock was all right - just dandy in fact - to be honest, I could not have forgiven myself if anything had happened to him _

John sat back and stopped typing. His eyes flew over his latest blog entry, rereading the last paragraph, while his hands were groping for the mug of tea he had placed in convenient reach. He took a sip and winced when the cold liquid hit his tastebuds. There wasn't much that John truly despised in this world, but cold tea was almost on top of his list. It ranged right behind jelly bears, running out of milk - and Sherlock's heartless coldness.

John glowered at the offending liquid and pushed his chair back to get up and brew another cuppa. On impulse he turned back to his laptop and after a moment's hesitation, his index finger hovering over the button, he deleted the last sentence.

**oooOOOooo**

Sherlock was content.

His latest case was delicious in its complexity. The challenges this anonymous devil set for him were titillating, stimulating and kept him pleasantly oscillating between contemplative stillness and buzzing activity. His brain was filled with an almost perverse contentment because he was able to lose himself in work and solving riddles.

Every new challenge had proven to be just that bit more demanding, that tiny bit more dangerous and Sherlock was excited by the fact that his adversary knew to set the stakes higher with every new message he sent him. He even felt a certain kinship with this person, with his enemy, as if there was an invisible bond between them, tying them together for better or for worse.

**oooOOOooo**

_This case turns out to be horrendous. Carl Powers, an insurance fraud, Connie Prince - Challenge after challenge after challenge, and this man is playing with actual lives, always raising the stakes. With horrible consequences. Something went wrong this time and twelve innocent people died! Twelve! But to Sherlock and his 'nemesis' this is nothing but a game. I asked him if he cared about those people at all, if this was actually more than a game for him. And he outright admitted that he did __**not**__ care, because, as he put it, caring about them would not help save them. _

_I don't know what to make of this - of him. Maybe Sally Donovan is right, maybe he is a freak._

**oooOOOooo**

On the cab ride home from Scotland Yard they were very quiet. John was sitting in the corner, musing. He was shocked by the cruelty they had just been forced to witness on the phone. True, John was familiar with violence and did not shy away from it, but what just had happened had been so utterly senseless, callous and downright mad.

'Sherlock, why is he doing that?'

Sherlock did not bother turning to him, but spoke against the cold window pane of the cab.

'I guess he is bored.'

'Bored?' John was incredulous. 'How can something like that be a result of boredom? This is nothing but madness. He's a loony, yes, but bored?'

'You can't see how this might be true? How a man could be driven to such madness because he's looking for distraction?'

'Oh, that's it, then? A man looking for distraction? Why not do something proper instead, maybe find a _distraction_ that does not kill other people? Invent some gadget, help out in a soup kitchen, that sort of thing?'

Sherlock turned to him then, his face impassive. 'I did not dispute the fact that this man is mad, John. I simply stated that he is looking for something to alleviate the boredom. That's why he plays with me, that's why he uses the riddles, gives me those challenges. He watches me, wants me to use my powers of deduction.'

'And where will this end?' John cleared his throat. 'Will it ever end? Or will it only end when one of you is incapable of going on?'

'Probably,' Sherlock conceded and turned away to focus on the outside, on London whooshing past them.

'Well, that's bloody great!' John huffed and marvelled once again about Sherlock's ability to distance himself from feelings and to look at life in his uniquely detached and so very _cold_ way.

_For fuck's sake_, Sherlock was so far away from him in those moments! John was not a man to overly dwell on sentiment himself, wasn't a friend of the public display of feelings, but the growing distance between them stung, it hurt, and it was hard for him to come to terms with what it might mean. Involuntarily John shivered and hunched his shoulders, settling deeper into his black jacket.

He had no idea where this case was going to take them and how on earth it was going to end.

**oooOOOooo**

His adversary was callous, more than evident in his MO, his modus operandi. He always used innocent people, semtex strapped to their bodies, to act as horrified go-betweens, as messengers - and this time it had gone wrong.

Despite Sherlock's brilliant deductions delivered on time the Connie Prince case had been marred by this unfortunate moment when the old woman on the phone had started to describe her tormentor. And this devil had not hesitated to kill her, ruthlessly. Twelve people had died with her in that explosion.

Well, this devil's MO could not be helped, but Sherlock's heart clenched when he thought back to that moment in Lestrade's office. It had been truly horrendous and John and Lestrade had been witness to it as well. The following cab ride home from the Yard had been uncomfortable to put it mildly, with John fuming because of this madman, and wallowing in a kind of anger which was as incomprehensible as it was raw.

A sharp noise brought Sherlock back from his thoughts. He steepled his fingers underneath his chin and watched John who was bustling around in their kitchen, banging doors as he went about his business.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and noticed the tension in John's back, saw it in the way he angled his head. As always, John was a suberb helpmate in this case. Save for the fact that he could not switch off his sentimentality when objecticity was the main priority. He knew that his own ability to detach himself from feelings troubled John, and that his flatmate was convinced that he did not comprehend such concepts as sadness, anger, pain - and love.

Well, this was another thing that could not be helped at the moment. Once this case was over there would be enough time to sort things out, after all John would not go anywhere. For now it was better to work on this case with all he got and let John steam a bit in those assumptions.

Right now, Sherlock was waiting for his next challenge, itching to prove himself again, itching to actually win.

**oooOOOooo**

'Wrong day to die, Sherlock!'

With those mundane parting words Moriarty almost danced out of the indoor swimming pool, leaving John and Sherlock alone. A few seconds later the tiny dots of red light indicating the snipers vanished as well. And when they heard doors bang, they knew this nightmare was over. John let out the breath he had been holding and slumped back against the wooden wall.

'What was that? Sherlock?'

'I don't know. Someone must have changed his mind. The question is who?'

Sherlock started pacing alongside the pool, in obvious need of movement after the forced stillness of the last half hour. He was very agitated, matching John's own state of mind, no doubt. The thought that Moriarty had used him as the final bait to get to Sherlock, and had kitted him out in enough semtex to bring the whole building down, was as horrifying as it was infuriating. He had never felt so helpless in his entire life. What a bloody insane madman! - And Moriarty just waltzed out of here and they could not stop him!

John did not move, could not move in fact, and leaning against one of the wooden changing cubicles he had to be content with simply watching. It was as if all energy had left him, whereas Sherlock was restless, still pacing the length of the pool like a caged lion, absentmindedly scratching his head with the gun. When John saw him doing that, all that was left of the soldier in John revolted and he could not help but snap.

'Sherlock. Don't do that!'

'Do what?'

'That! Have you never heard of gun safety?'

'Oh! You mean?'

Sherlock looked at the gun and then at John. He stopped pacing. And after a moment of silence he walked up to John and stood right in front of him. He looked at the gun in his hand and a tiny smile lifted the corners of his lips. Slowly he lifted his arm and pointed the gun at his temple. John flinched, but resisted the urge to leap up. He just shook his head. What game was he playing now? He was so fucking tired of bloody games.

With an almost diabolical grin Sherlock cocked the gun.

'Right, that's enough. Stop it, Sherlock. Stop it NOW!'

Sherlock moved the gun a bit to the right so that John could see and pulled the trigger.

'NO!'

John jumped up and punched Sherlock's arm, sending the gun flying and skidding along the tiles. Ten, maybe fifteen yards along the side of the pool where it came to rest.

John sank to his knees and slumped forward. He remained where he was, on his knees, doubled over by a wave of nausea, unable to move. His eyes were screwed shut, and all he could concentrate on was his own panting, the bile in his throat and the rush of blood in his ears, loud and insistent. It took a moment for the other sound to register, a low sound like crying which became louder and louder until John realised that it was Sherlock who was making this noise.

He was laughing.

'Your face,' he sputtered between giggles. 'You should have seen your face, John! It was priceless.'

John opened his eyes and gaped at him, trying to contain the red hot anger that was quickly rising in his chest. An insurmountable task and with an almost feral cry he leapt up and tackled Sherlock to the ground.

'You arsehole! You utter bastard!'

Furious, John stradled Sherlock and both his hands clutched the lapels of Sherlock's suit jacket, shaking him violently, none too gently banging his head on the ground a few times.

'Stop it,' Sherlock managed to press out before John's hand found his neck and pressed.

'Stop it, John.' Sherlock's hands clawed at the side of John's jacket, struggling for purchase and when nothing worked he brought his right knee up and jabbed it in John's back. It wasn't a very promising move as he was effectively pinned to the ground by the smaller, but strong man, but the impact of his knee affected John and the hold on Sherlock's neck weakened. It was all Sherlock needed and he managed to push John's hands away from his neck.

Gulping for air Sherlock let his arms fall to the side and closed his eyes. His chest was heaving violently and John's weight was still pressing down on him as he made no attempt to move.

And all Sherlock could feel were John's hands on his chest, and all he could hear were his own gulps for air and John's heavy breathing.

'It's not a real gun,' Sherlock eventually said after what seemed minutes. Softly, unsure of his voice. 'It's a fake, a very good replica, a lighter. I pinched it from the cabbie. He held me at gunpoint with it, but it worked to my advantage that I had realised it was fake. I'm astonished you didn't.'

'Oh, so it's my fault, is it?' John's voice was low, and anger and tiredness were fighting for dominance. 'Why is it always _my_ fault?' John looked up then and their eyes met.

It was as if the atmosphere shifted and all the adrenaline, the stress, the anger and the fury united, begging for release. Without thinking Sherlock grabbed John's head with both hands and pulled him down within an inch of his own face. Their eyes locked and Sherlock could read everything that raced through John's mind in those dark blue eyes: anger, surprise, hurt, interest - arousal.

'If I were to kiss you now, would you let me?' he whispered.

'Try me,' John almost growled.

Sherlock felt John's jaws clench underneath his fingers, sensed the tension in his thighs. He closed his eyes and breathed out, trying to calm his heartbeat. They were so close now that their breaths mingled, and then Sherlock exerted just a bit more pressure and brought John's lips to his. His skin tingled and he felt a shiver down his spine when their lips met. He kissed John, soft and tentative, but John did not kiss him back.

Suprised Sherlock opened his eyes and saw that John had never closed his and was watching him. His face was impassive and when he spoke there was a chilling note to his words.

'Why would I let you kiss me? Hm? Why would I let you play with me? You are cold, you are heartless and most importantly, you are not interested in me.'

Sherlock frowned. He heard those words, heard the accusation, but only when the hurt behind them registered did he understand.

'Oh - you mean because I said ...'

'Yes.'

'I guess it's no use when I say that I had time to rethink?'

'Absolutely no use.'

John straightened his back and broke their connection. With a grunt he heaved himself up from the floor. He dusted himself down, patting along his chest and arms as if he was getting rid of anything Sherlock might have left on him. Cold disappointment filled him, and he could not make out who he was more disappointed in, Sherlock or his own cowardly self.

'It's a shame.' Sherlock said and sat up. Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, he looked up at John from underneath his lashes.

John narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. He could not believe Sherlock's nerve. _God_, was he still angry with this bloody madman, furious about the stunt he had just pulled and now _this_! If John had not been influenced by what this case had shown him, by what others believed and were not reticent to share with him - Sherlock was a freak, asexual, a psychopath or whatever label people wanted to attach to him - John could have sworn he was flirting.

'Well,' John cleared his throat and despite his inner turmoil he could not help but smile at the absurd outcome of this evening. 'Maybe some other time and maybe not immediately after somebody tried to blow us up.' His smile grew thinner. 'Maybe when we both mean it.' The smile left John's face and he glanced away.

'Right,' Sherlock answered.

He looked rather childish, sitting cross-legged on the tiled floor, but also very young and disarmingly human. His long fingers worried the collar of his shirt and the lapels of his jacket and then he held out his hand. John glanced at it and after a moment's hesitation he grabbed Sherlock's warm hand to help him up from the floor. Sherlock did not let go and loomed over him, standing very, very close. John felt compelled to look up and he was taken aback by the soft look in Sherlock's eyes.

'Right, John. Maybe some other time.'

* * *

**A/N**

Well, they're getting there... (I hope this chapter was not too confusing with the changing POVs, but I tried my best to make it as clear as possible :)

It is my understanding of John and Sherlock's relationship in the first series that they are intrigued and fascinated by each other from the very first moment, but unable to act on it. In **A Study in Pink** John is very open, admiring and praising Sherlock, this fascinating madman, and Sherlock likes that.

But when John seemingly wants more from him, Sherlock is quick to claim that he is entirely occupied by his work, unfeeling, and he's even insinuating that he is asexual. Obviously John can't _have_ him then, and has to come to terms with this new situation. And he does so by telling himself what a cold and unfeeling bastard Sherlock is (sour grapes and all that, and I think that John's 'I'm not gay'-mantra fits neatly into this).

And Sherlock? Well, he tries his utmost to keep his heart immune to the temptation that is John, but of course he fails miserably and at the end of series one he realises that John is in fact much more than a little helpmate for him.

Right, then ... on to series two!

Thank you for all your lovely feedback, I really, really appreciate every single message, every alert and of course every review!

JJ xx


	4. A Scandal in Belgravia

**A Scandal in Belgravia**

'I'll just pop down to the shops. Do you need anything special?'

John did not know why he bothered talking to Sherlock. Not that he could expect a full-blown answer, not even its little brother, the non-verbal reply of the variety _indifferent_ _shrug_ or more often than not the _sarcastically_ _raised eyebrow_.

Sherlock's mind was occupied, his thoughts anywhere but in their cluttered kitchen. So absorbed had he been in the cold case he was working on that he had been silent and unavailable for the world around him for the best part of the last two days.

John loved when Sherlock was content and lost in his work. And he loved watching him then. Leaning against the doorpost he traced the sharp lines of Sherlock's face with his eyes. His profile, the straight nose, the sharp cheekbones and the strong jawline which was beyond perfect. John wetted his lips, relaxing into the moment, enjoying what he saw.

He was certain that he was safe, that Sherlock did not notice him staring. How could he? Entirely oblivious of the mundane reality of 221B, Sherlock was perched at the kitchen table, alternating his concentration between the microscope, a slide underneath the ocular, and his laptop, typing furiously, and no doubt switching between various tabs, soaking up information like a dry sponge.

After a few minutes of blissful silence, John walked up to the kitchen table and lightly leaned onto Sherlock's back, touching his shoulder when he reached past him to grab the shopping list he had prepared earlier. As expected the intimate touch was not significant enough to elicit a response, but John enjoyed it nonetheless. He carefully folded the list before he shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. Straightening his back, he let his gaze linger on Sherlock a moment longer, fondly.

'Right. I'm off, then.'

On his way out John grabbed their shopping basket and was almost down the first flight of stairs when he heard Sherlock calling after him.

'Wait, John. I'll come with you. I need some air.'

John stopped on the landing, just this side of being surprised by this sudden wave of activity after days of near muteness. Sherlock's face was relaxed and his smile friendly and open when he joined him.

'Shall we?'

And in companiable silence they walked down the remaining stairs and left 221B to get their groceries from a nearby Marks and Spencer's. Outside they both adjusted their scarves and put the collars up against the frisky January cold. Sherlock noticed the synchronicity of their movements and his heart clenched. It was comforting to see his own quirks mirrored in another human being.

Avoiding sentimentality by a hair's breadth, he looked up into the darkening afternoon sky, heavy with grey clouds, threatening with sleet or worse. Sherlock sniffed, yes, the air was positively reeking of cold and snow. He shuddered and huddled deeper into his coat, glancing at John who looked warm and toasty in his black jacket.

'By the way, John. I know that you were watching me.'

'When?'

'Just now, before you grabbed the shopping list - and you were touching me.'

'Well ...' John was at a loss for words, used to being confronted with Sherlock's bluntness though he was. He reverted to a tiny smile instead.

'I don't mind, you know.'

'Oh, good,' John said, mentally kicking himself for his lame reply.

**oooOOOooo**

'What shall we get?' John hungrily eyed the ready-made meals, settling on a nice couscous with roasted vegetables. 'How about this for starters?'

'Hm,' Sherlock shrugged and continued standing next to John, very close, his hands clasped behind his back.

'Right then,' John dropped the couscous into the trolley and grabbed some pasta with peppers and feta cheese for main course. Into the trolley it went as well, and they continued their rounds. John strolled off towards the bread section and halfway there remembered that they needed milk and orange juice as well, while Sherlock added some profiteroles filled with chocolate cream, a tub of vanilla ice cream and a huge container of fruit salad, followed by custard creams and milk chocolate digestives.

John, his arms laden with two litre bottles of semi-skimmed milk, a loaf of bread and one litre of orange juice, found Sherlock in the biscuit aisle. Leisurely they continued strolling through the food hall, adding breakfast tea and two jars of strawberry jam for John and some dark chocolate for Sherlock. They both agreed on a nice bottle of red wine they wanted to share later, together with their couscous and pasta.

Without John noticing Sherlock had also added a huge packet of household gloves, some blue biros, two plain notebooks, several boxes of tissues, baking soda and three tins of black treacle. John made sure to add a nice white candle, paper napkins and a crime novel.

Standing at the checkout, neither commented on the other man's choices and after they had paid, they walked back home, both looking forward to a quiet night in.

**oooOOOooo**

John's eyelids drooped and his eyes slowly closed while his hand, spoon still firmly held between thumb and index finger, was sinking to the table. Quickly Sherlock jumped up from his chair and snatched the bowl with ice cream away before John's face would dip into it. Sliding a cushion underneath his head, he made sure that John was comfortable, and then turned him just so that he would be able to breathe freely.

That done Sherlock checked John's pulse - regular and steady. Whistling under his breath, he turned and walked over to the cluttered kitchen table with an undeniable spring in his step, fired his laptop and opened the file labelled 'John'. A spreadsheet, prepared this afternoon, was waiting to be filled with data. Sherlock smiled, the feeling fluttering in his chest only comparable to a little boy's excitement on Christmas morning.

John had been entirely trusting the whole evening, had not even doubted his intentions when he had volunteered to prepare the dessert, surprising him with a bowl filled with fruit salad and ice cream, topped off with a profiterole and the whole concoction laced with a very special something.

Sherlock turned to the sink and pocketed the small bottle and the syringe. He knew the soporific was harmless, tasteless, odourless and he had meticulously worked out the right dose for John's height and weight. Enough to knock him out, but not more. Monitoring John's food intake and weight over the past four weeks, taking into account his habitual weight gain over the festive season, Sherlock had been able to work out the ideal, and most importantly harmless, dose for John.

Sherlock glanced at his friend who was snoring lightly now, and grabbed his laptop to set it up next to him on the living room table.

**oooOOOooo**

John slept soundly through the next hours.

Sherlock checked on him every hour - pulse, temperature - noting down every tiny detail, every mumbling, every movement. John was in very good hands, monitored and safe.

Five hours into the experiment, Sherlock got restless and frankly a bit bored. He needed distraction.

After a moment of internal battle he carefully slipped his hands into John's trouser pockets to explore their contents. There was a receipt from their dry cleaner, one from the chemist, two rumpled tissues, a lemon handwipe, a crumpled bag of peppermints and a small, smooth pebble. Sherlock made sure to replace everything exactly where he had found it, he was well aware that John would notice any change, however miniscule.

Next Sherlock added a few columns to his spreadsheet and spent some time observing the momentary state of John's physique and physiognomy.

He was particularly intrigued by the laughter lines around John's eyes and the varying shades of his hair, a lighter greying blond on the temples and a darker ashen blond at the nape of his neck - Fascinating, how the colour changed, depending on the angle one was observing it from - The same was to be said for John's skin, always a few shades darker than his own. Truly fascinating shades there were, a perfect golden hue on his forehead, rivalled only by the pearly tone on the back of his hands and a creamy hue on his wrist.

Sherlock only used his eyes, was careful not to touch John, even he had to admit that such behaviour could easily be labelled creepy - and creepy he certainly was not. No, he was on a scientific mission, conducting an experiment for the greater good, nothing sinister about that. And since he could not very well drug himself and monitor the outcome at the same time, it had to be John. It could only be John.

Seven hours into the experiment, Sherlock realised that he would have to take a nap himself, and as John gave no sign of awakening any time soon, he saw no harm in that. If Sherlock had calculated correctly, John would be sleeping for almost twenty-four hours. Of course the experiment could not be compromised so he set the alarm on his mobile, thus enabling himself to check on John every full hour.

Twelve hours down, Sherlock took a shower, remembering to put back on his used clothes from yesterday. He knew he had plenty of time to either work on his case, answer some enquiries or check out John's blog. He could even nip down to Mrs Hudson's flat to _borrow_ some women's magazines from her living room.

First things first, though, and Sherlock decided to have something to eat. A light breakfast would not go amiss, nothing complicated, maybe a leftover profiterole, two biscuits and some tea.

Five minutes later he sat down opposite John, blowing on the scalding liquid in his mug.

'Some friend, you are!' a mocking, pleasant voice piped up, the words followed by some frivolous laughter.

Sherlock scoffed and shook his head. 'Nobody invited you. Go away, I have no time for you!'

'Sherlock, dear. Why don't you relax! Come one, let me help you a bit.' Irene Adler got up from John's chair and sashayed towards Sherlock, her hips swaying seductively in the tight black lacy dress she was wearing. Her mouth was nothing but a little red pout and her long red fingernails were reaching out for John.

'No! Leave him!' Sherlock quickly got up and plonked the full mug of tea on the table, the violent motion causing the amber liquid to slosh over the rim. 'You have no business with him.'

'Jealous?' Irene smirked. 'Oh Sherlock! Does he know?'

'Get out of my head! I'm busy!'

John stirred in his drug-induced sleep, mumbling something, and Sherlock crouched down next to him, trying to catch the words.

'Sherl...' John muttered, wetting his lips and then moved his head. Sherlock's hand shot out, ready to steady John, but after a bit more of unintelligible mumbling, John settled back into this amazing deep sleep.

'Get out! I ...' Sherlock spun around, ready to chase Irene from his mind, but she was gone. Caring for John had chased her away. 'Good,' Sherlock nodded.

Irene's intrusion into his thoughts troubled Sherlock. He knew that his interest or infatuation - a term only an overly sentimental person would apply to that incident - was overcome. Despite John's belief, Sherlock had never been attracted to her in a physical way, no, never anything like that. Irene Adler was like a peacock, an interesting, intriguing variety of a particularly colourful species. Nice to look at, pleasing to the eye, yes, but so was a sample of bread mould. Of course the puzzle she had presented him with had been interesting and distracting to a point, but that had been all there had been to it.

Sherlock crouched down next to John, studying the relaxed face of his sleeping friend. Irene had never had the power to captivate him entirely, his mind and his body, had never woken any kind of desire in him. True, he had helped to escape her that final time in Karachi, and he instinctively realised that John better never found out about this particular night, but as far as Sherlock was concerned, the chapter 'Irene Adler' was closed.

That Irene should function as his bad conscience tonight, was irritating. Both hands pressed to his temple Sherlock did his utmost to delete the last few minutes. As much for his own as for John's sake who had been so very jealous. Acting like a schoolboy, counting the texts this woman had sent him and whatnot - John had even stopped dating since the _Irene incident_ ... Sherlock straightened his back when he made the connection, a smile dancing across his pale features.

Content, Sherlock grabbed his chair and positioned it right next to John, willing to wait with him until the drugs finally wore off.

**oooOOOooo**

John woke with a start and a rather unbecoming snort.

'Wha...?' He blinked, confused, and slightly groggy. Wincing, he straightened his back, rolling his shoulders a few times to loosen the cramped muscles.

'Sherlock, what the hell happened?' His mouth was dry, and tasted like something left outside the fridge a tad too long. His eyes scanned the dining table for his glass of wine. Right, there it was. John grabbed it eagerly, but decided against it when he saw the dark red liquid. He suddenly felt that he could not stomach alcohol right now.

Amazed John saw Sherlock dashing to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. Greedily John gulped it down, his eyes beckoning Sherlock to refill it immediately.

'You fell asleep, John. Roughly ...' Sherlock put down the freshly refilled glass of water in front of John and made a show of studying his watch '... an hour ago.'

'And you let me sleep? On the table?'

Sherlock shrugged and pretending to adjust John's cardigan he unobtrusively checked John's pulse.

'Clearly. You seemed exhausted and I decided against carrying you upstairs - again. I estimated you would surely awake after a short _nap_.' Sherlock managed to infuse the little word with so much contempt that John had to grin.

'Could be you're coming down with something...' Sherlock made a show of putting his cool hand on John's forehead. 'But you are the doctor, surely you don't need me to tell you the symptons.'

'I do feel a bit groggy, yes ... I think I'll skip dessert.' John pointed to the bowl where in a puddle of melted vanilla ice cream some fruit salad and a sodden profiterole were competing for attention. John saw that Sherlock had finished his own dessert, probably while he had been napping.

'Right, I think I'll turn in. I really don't feel too well.'

'That's probably for the best, John.' Sherlock smiled at him, open and friendly, but John could not shake the feeling that something was distinctly off. He could not put his fingers on it, but ... he lightly shook his head, a mistake as this motion only encouraged the headache which started to form at the base of his skull.

'I'll bring you tea in a minute.'

'Thank you, a cup of tea would be lovely.'

John decided to keep his nightly ablutions basic, just strategically splashing a bit of water over his body and brushing his teeth. That left slipping into his old army t-shirt and comfy pyjama bottoms and he was ready for bed. Tiredly he shuffled up to his bedroom where he slumped down on his bed with a grunt. He switched on the small bedside table lamp and as every night, he took off his watch to place it right beside it. His glance fell on the clock-face and again he wondered why he could barely stand upright at this early hour - it was only half past eight after all. He really must be coming down with something, he thought, and then he stumbled over the date.

'Sherlock? What's the date today?'

'28th.'

'Oh, right. My bloody watch must be broken. It says 29th.'

'I'll have a look at it later. Be with you in a moment, John.'

'Sure...' John mumbled and slipped underneath the covers, shivering when the chilly sheets hit his bare skin where the pyjama bottoms had ridden up his legs. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the softness of the mattress, relaxing his cramped muscles limb by limb. How on earth could he be so tense and cramped after a short nap on the chair? He closed his eyes, basking in the domestic noises that washed up from the kitchen where Sherlock was busy with something or other.

_Tea!_ was John's last thought before he drifted off to sleep again.

**oooOOOooo**

Sherlock placed the mug of steaming tea on the bedside table next to John's watch. He realised he had slipped up, had forgotten to turn back the time. One small mistake, jeopardising all the hard work, all the details he had painstakingly taken care of - putting on his worn clothes, dishing out the dessert once again, precisely thirty minutes before John's estimated wake up time so that the ice cream would have melted into a puddle, sending Mrs Hudson away, arranging for Mycroft to be busy and Lestrade to be engrossed in a case - but to make such an amateurish mistake - _Oh for God's sakes_!

Sherlock shrugged and on a whim he decided to take his chances and leave the watch the way it was.

John seemed to be sleeping again and Sherlock checked his pulse. That it was elevated, made Sherlock frown. John should really not be so drowsy still, what if he had miscalculated the dose? No, impossible! John must be coming down with something, yes, that must be it. It was virtually impossible that Sherlock could have made a mistake, after all the monitoring he had done on John in the last weeks. He was a graduate chemist, he knew what to do.

But he felt remorse and knew he would not leave John alone tonight. Gently he eased John a bit to the side and lay down on the bed next to him, chastely lying on the duvet.

'What have you done this time, you impossible git?'

Sherlock froze, but decided to play the innocent.

'Brought you some tea as promised.'

'That's not what I'm talking about. The bloody date, the fact that I miraculously fell asleep over dinner, and let's not forget that I feel like a _bloody_ piece of _bloody_ shit right now!'

John turned, a cumbersome move with Sherlock on the duvet and faced his friend, who had the grace to look abashed.

'I don't know what you're talking about. You were tired, you fell asleep, I think you might be coming down with the flu, to be honest - and your watch probably needs a bit of readjusting. I know a very good watchmaker who owes me a favour. I got him off a murder charge once.'

The situation was awkward and had him babbling, and suddenly Sherlock realised with startling clarity that the whole experiment he had conducted was absurd. Utterly absurd and maybe even despicable. Despite the feeling of regret which settled coldly somewhere in his chest he could not help but weakly smile, and then John knew.

'It was _you_! What the hell did you do?'

'Nothing to worry about, John. It was all scientifically monitored and at no time have you been in any danger. You know I would never allow that.'

John snorted, and fell silent, but eventually he answered Sherlock's weak smile.

Sherlock averted his gaze, a blush creeping up his pale neck. He busied himself, his fingers worrying the hem of the duvet, trying to make sure that John was covered nicely by the warm eiderdown and that he himself was not taking up too much space. John watched him, a frown knitting his brow, but still he refrained from any comment.

Instead they were lying in silence for a while, John musing and Sherlock worrying, internally debating whether he should John let in on the nature of the experiment or not. But eventually he decided against telling him that he had missed an entire day. He was absolutely sure now that what he had done was more than a 'bit not good'.

Sherlock's skin began to tingle. The feeling quickly grew unpleasant and he winced when the left side of his body grew numb because he was wedged against the bedside table. He wiggled a bit to find a more comfortable position.

'You can join me under the duvet, you know.' John mumbled. 'It's very uncomfortable with you wiggling on top.'

'Thank you, John. I think I will do that.'

'Shut up.'

'Right.'

That he was fussing a bit too much with his dressing gown, it took several attempts to shrug his long arms out of it, told Sherlock that he was a bit flustered by this turn of events. Once he lay next to John, under the duvet, close, but not daring to touch, he tried to breathe out his nervousness in one big, drawn-out breath.

'It's all right, Sherlock,' John muttered drowsily. 'Let's go to sleep.'

Turning towards him, John generously draped one arm over Sherlock's midriff and one leg over his thighs, drawing as much warmth and comfort from this human heating pad he could get. As expected he sensed Sherlock's body tensing in reply to his deliberate and possessive touch, a reaction which told him that Sherlock would not get much sleep tonight.

John adjusted his position. For good measure he settled his head comfortably on Sherlock's chest and let his fingers play with the hem of Sherlock's t-shirt, the pad of his thumb gently stroking over the exposed skin. The happy smile on John's face definitely oscillated towards smug when he noticed the excited _throb throb throb_ of Sherlock's heart in response to this invasion of privacy.

John sighed contently, enjoying the warmth and the intimacy and let's not forget, the satisfying feeling of sweet revenge slowly spreading through his whole being - and _for fuck's sake, _it felt so _bloody _good!

* * *

**A/N**

This (rather awful) experiment is a nod to Sherlock's best man speech in 'The Sign Of Three' when he reveals that John missed a 'whole Wednesday once' because he had drugged him for an experiment. Originally I wanted to include (more) of Irene Adler into this chapter, but then this happened and now Irene is just a part of Sherlock's mind palace, his bad conscience.

And, rest assured, Sherlock will not get away with all those awful shenanigans. John will give him a piece of his mind ... soon!

Thank you for all your lovely feedback :) It really makes my day!

JJ xx


	5. The Hound of Baskerville

**The Hound of Baskerville**

'It's becoming a bit of a habit,' John said. 'You drugging me.'

The words sounded harmless, spoken as friendly and nonchalantly as if he had been commenting on the fine weather which accompanied them on their ride from Grimpen Village to the station.

'First a soporific dessert and now a drugged coffee. I'm not sure being your little _helpmate_ is quite as harmless as I thought.'

'As I already explained,' Sherlock began with a glance at John, trying to read his friend's face, but he found that it was quite impassive. 'Both experiments were closely monitored, entirely safe, virtual laboratory conditions. And I assure you, there are no longterm effects.' Sherlock nodded and fixed his gaze back on the narrow road, satisfied with this explanation.

'Yeah ... sure, so you said. Does not change the fact that it's an awful thing to do.'

Surprisingly Sherlock was unsettled by what he had heard and he glanced at John again. He caught him smiling and a shudder went down Sherlock's spine. It was that dangerous smile, the one John used to cover his anger, a smile tricking his adversary into complacency when the worst was yet to come. Involuntarily he flinched and turned his gaze back to the road, bracing himself for the storm.

'How _can_ you, Sherlock?'

Sherlock felt rather than saw that John had turned to face him and was watching him intently. 'How can you do that to a friend?' John's voice was friendly, devoid of accusation, but all the more hurting for what it lacked.

'As I said, John,' Sherlock swallowed, desperately trying to get rid of the cold unease settling somewhere near his heart. 'It was all entirely safe and ...'

'Yes, right! That's not the point, though and you know it isn't!'

'John, even you have to admit that I could not very well drug myself and monitor the outcome. I needed you, I needed an unsuspecting subject who could guarantee an unbiased result.'

'I see!' John huffed with indignation. 'Okay - Let me get this straight. What you are telling me is that I am a guinea pig for the great Sherlock Holmes. That I am _useful_.' John almost spat out that last word and then he fell silent. When he spoke again the sad undertone panicked Sherlock. 'Good to know that, I guess. Thank you for making it clear. Because there I was, thinking I was more than useful. I thought I was your friend.'

'But you are! You definitely are!' Sherlock wanted to say more, but even though he felt that he absolutely should he did not have the words. His jaw muscles worked with the effort to find them.

'Then let me ask you again, how can you do that to a friend?'

Sherlock could only suspect what John wanted from him, and it hurt that he was so out of his depths. It could not be helped. He needed to fake an emotion, needed to revert to secondhand experience, hoping that it was enough. 'I can see now that it was wrong, John.'

John nodded curtly and then fixed his gaze on the bleak landscape whooshing past outside. They drove on in silence for a while, but John's head jerked forward when Sherlock suddenly braked and brought the Land Rover to a halt in the middle of the deserted road. For a moment there was only more silence between them, interspersed with the occasional clicking of the cooling motor.

'Sorry, John,' Sherlock said into the cold silence of the car, and this time the words felt right. This time he felt the painful lump in his chest that was his heart and the haunting vision of an empty flat, devoid of John's presence. 'I am truly sorry.'

John listened to the words, tasting their truthfulness, the impression they left behind and yes, he believed him. He cleared his throat, 'All right.'

'I'm sorry to have used you as a guinea pig, I'm sorry that you lost a whole day and I'm sorry that you had to endure panic in the lab.' Sherlock sensed John tensing and realised that he had said too much. Hastily he continued, the words almost tumbling out of his mouth in their haste to cover what he had let slip and to chase away this maddening feeling of nausea. 'I don't know how to make it up to you. Tell me what to do, John. You know that I don't do this sort of thing vey often, in fact I never do it at all. What do you expect of me? I'm not well-versed in the mechanics of friendship. You know I don't have friends, I've only got you...' Sherlock stopped and quickly sucked in air, it sounded like a stifled sob. 'I've only got you.'

The knuckles of his hands gripping the steering wheel turned white with the sheer force of the movement and John instinctively placed his hand on Sherlock's. The silence in the confined space of their car grew thick and it was John, never somebody to endure silence easily, who was the first to break it.

'Yes,' he softly said. 'You've got me.'

John left his hand where it was, feeling Sherlock gradually relax under his touch. There was no denying that he enjoyed the effect he had on Sherlock. It made him feel needed and important. It made him feel wanted. When John realised the implication behind this sentiment, he shifted in his seat, but left his hand where it was, his thumb softly stroking over cool skin. His glance fell on Sherlock's watch and it hit him that they had a train to catch. 'Come on. Let's go home.'

Sherlock turned to John and nodded, a faint smile dancing across his pale features. A sudden snort from the back seat of the car startled them and John turned, looking over his shoulder.

'Awake now, are we?'

'Bloody hell, I must have dozed off.' Greg Lestrade sat up and wiped over his mouth. 'Why have we stopped?'

'A rare breed of moose was crossing the road and we decided to observe it while it was passing,' John said drily. Sherlock was silent, staring at John's hand which was slowly travelling along his arm and up to his shoulder. A tender squeeze and then the connection was broken.

'Moose? Here?' Lestrade craned his neck, checking the landscape.

'Yeah! Never heard of the Baskerville Moose? Special breed, blackish in colour, about six feet high, red eyes, impressive antlers.'

'Wha ..?' Lestrade finally caught on. 'Very funny, John.' He checked his watch. 'As much as I enjoy Baskerville's wildlife I really think we should get a move on. I need to get back to London asap and I'm sure the train won't wait.'

Sherlock glanced into the rearview mirror and nodded. He needed to catch John's eye, though, and when his friend gave him an open and warm smile he was quick to return it and the weight which had descended on his heart, momentarily grew lighter.

'Right, Gavin - let's get you back.'

'It's _Greg_!'

**oooOOOooo**

Even Lestrade sensed that something was different, the atmosphere in the crowded railway compartment charged with things unspoken, but he was quick to put it down to post-case depression. At least as far as Sherlock was concerned, who was withdrawn and absent.

He was not prepared to tease Sherlock about it _or_ to make an attempt to include him in the conversation, although Lestrade was fairly sure that on Sherlock's part it was simply an unwillingness to chat. Naturally, no new case had presented itself between last night in Dewer's Hollow and the train back to London, and sadly enough, there was not much other common ground between them. Lestrade knew better than to ask Sherlock's opinion on some dull, trivial thing because the last thing he wanted right now was to become the focus of Sherlock's sharp tongue - No! Definitely not enough caffeine in his system to withstand such an onslaught and besides, there was no possibilty to put enough space between himself and those cutting remarks, what with their crowded compartment in an overfull train taking them back to Paddington Station. John was his old pleasant self, though, and Greg was more than happy to reminisce with the good doctor.

When the train slowly crept into Paddington Sherlock was up and out of the compartment with barely a glance spared for the Detective Inspector or John.

'He's a bit ...' Lestrade paused, obviously looking for the appropriate term to apply to this version of Sherlock.

'Sherlock-_y_?' John offered and they both grinned. Once the train had come to a full stop the three of them left the train, John setting off to follow Sherlock's quick and determined stride towards the cabs and Lestrade behind them at a more leisurely pace. Shoving both hands into his coat pockets he chuckled. What a strange man Sherlock was. Strange, but granted, also fascinating in his extraordinary acerbity. But John did wonders for him, had managed to make him that bit more approachable and human. Surprising, really, that their connection should work out so well as John was quite a normal fellow - compared to Sherlock that was.

Lestrade scoffed and shook his head when he caught the last glimpse of the detective and the doctor before the crowd swalllowed them. There was much more, though, wasn't there? Everybody with eyes could see! Lestrade knew of some more or less daring bets circulating in the Yard regarding the imminent or not so imminent change of dynamics between them. If asked, Lestrade would have to admit that he himself had placed twenty quid on these two idiots getting it on. What a waste that John and Sherlock did not seem to have the balls to open their eyes for each other!

'You silly buggers,' Lestrade muttered fondly and strolled down the platform and straight into the first coffee shop in the main building of Paddington Station. Before he could stomach the hustle and bustle at Scotland Yard, he needed a large injection of caffeine and maybe one of those lovely Danish pastries.

**oooOOOooo**

It was unmistakable that something had changed between them. As if the events in Baskerville had shaken up the foundations of their relationship and something had shifted. It meant that they were now graviating towards each other - irresistibly.

Sherlock was well aware that the fundamental fear which had shaken him at Baskerville had not been real, but drug-induced. Therefore this could be classified as a case-related event and could be filed away accordingly. But he also knew that the fear of losing John, which had held him captive in the car, had been raw and utterly frightening and _real_. There was no excuse for it, no drugs, and no other extraordinary circumstances he could use to trick himself into denying what he had felt, and so he did not.

'John, will you join me for a moment?'

Sherlock was lying on his back on their battered leather sofa, his fingers steepled beneath his chin in his usual thinking pose. It was a conscious choice, meant to remind John of their first night together at 221B. The night John had shot the cabbie to save him, the night which had been a new beginning for both of them.

John stopped what he was doing in the kitchen, brewing yet another cup of tea most likely, and looked up.

'Why?'

'I need to tell you something.'

'And this requires my presence right next to you? You can't just talk to me where I am now?'

'Problem?'

John sighed and gave up. Of course he did not mind walking the short distance to join Sherlock, but he loved their little power plays, and what he loved even more was giving in to him once in a while.

Sherlock held out his hand and guided John to sit right next to him on the sofa which meant he had to slide towards the backrest to accomodate him. Still, it wasn't vey comfortable and John fidgeted a while before his position was acceptable. Sherlock raised a sarcastic eyebrow and wiggled a bit to make more room.

'Well?'

'Well ... I feel the need to express - once again - that I am sorry about the coffee and the dessert and I assure you it won't happen again.'

'You know you don't have to keep apologising, Sherlock. I already accepted your first apology and that's it.'

'It is?' Sherlock sounded genuinely astonished and, not for the first time, John wondered just how little Sherlock seemed to know about human nature.

'Yes!' John nodded.

'That's good, I suppose. I'm very happy about that.' Sherlock said with a solemn face and John could not suppress a snort.

'What?' Sherlock demanded.

'Nothing. It really _is_ okay now. I'm not angry with you anymore.' John's voice changed when he added. 'Because I'm absolutely sure this won't happen again!'

A shudder ran down Sherlock's spine, a pleasant one. John's rigorous tone had hit a spot and one that was just the right side of exciting. He narrowed his eyes at John, studying him and then he decided to take a risk.

'If I were to kiss you now, would you let me?'

It was a gamble, he had to admit, using this phrase again, and he was far from sure it would work. John did not react at first and Sherlock's heart clenched. He averted his eyes, ready to take the blow.

'Try me.' He heard John say eventually.

Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position. His eyes roamed over John's handsome face - a face that he could draw with his eyes closed - each tiny freckle, the different skin textures, every laughter line - but he was taken aback by what he saw in John's eyes now.

John smiled at him before he dipped his chin and glanced away. Sherlock's heart sank when he mistook this as rejection, despite the obvious signs, but then John glanced up and nodded. 'What are you waiting for, Sherlock,' he said softly. 'Try me!'

Sherlock cupped John's face and without hesitation brought their lips together. He did not bother being gentle, that's not what he felt and not what he wanted. Instead he deepened the kiss and enjoyed his skin tingling all over when he felt John kissing him back. John's hands fisted the front of Sherlock's shirt, bunching the material between his fingers, moans escaping him when he kissed the man he had fallen for all those months ago.

Sinking back against the armrest of the sofa Sherlock pulled John on top of him. There was some shuffling and adjusting and struggling for dominance. Sherlock held John very tight for a moment to still him and then let his hands slip underneath the striped jumper and the shirt, his fingers seeking and touching warm skin. John gasped and arched into his touch, pressing up into those warm palms.

But John needed to touch as well and both his hands meandered up Sherlock's chest in response, relishing the combination of the softness of the fabric and his hot skin underneath. Slowly he undid the buttons of his purple shirt, one by one, and each exposed inch of pale skin only added to his desire.

Still, there were too many barriers, two many layers, and Sherlock's hands slipped lower, underneath the waistband of John's jeans to get even closer to him. The sudden tightening of his jeans and the pressure against his arousal made John gasp.

'Let me ...' he mumbled and stradling Sherlock, he quickly sat up to undo his belt. His fingers were clumsy when they they should not be, and he cursed under his breath.

'No, let me ...' Sherlock batted his hands away and opened the belt. An unexpected display of bossiness that was, and it made John grin and relax, and sitting back he felt Sherlock hard against his crotch. So enticing that was, and he simply had to move, making Sherlock gasp and arch his back, exposing his neck to him.

John could not help it and bent down to taste him, taste this expanse of creamy, soft skin, licking across his neck, and up to his strong jaw. Sherlock was writhing underneath him, almost whimpering and John felt dizzy with arousal and the knowledge that he could reduce Sherlock to such a state of raw need.

Sitting up again, John unzipped his trousers, lifting his hips to slide his trousers and briefs down as far as his position would allow. It would have been better to move to the bedroom or onto the floor, but he knew that he could not break their connection, could not stop now. Sherlock used this moment to slip his trousers down his hips to free himself.

More kisses on Sherlock's chest and his neck and the growing need to move, to feel, to go further. Sherlock's hands were all over his back and John started moving in time with the kisses he placed on Sherlock's flushed skin. Slowly first, but they soon fell into an uncoordinated, somewhat unrefined, delicious rhythm. John burried both hands in Sherlock's curls, kissing the corners of his mouth, his cheeks, nipping at his lips, eliciting the most amazing sounds from this beautiful man.

Such an onslaught of sensations it was that Sherlock grew impatient - it was too much and not enough somehow - and he grew irritated because he could not decide what to do next, where to touch. He huffed out a frustrated sigh and let his hands caress John's muscular back, sliding up and down, and then settled on his bare buttocks, enjoying the arousing flexing of John's muscles while he was moving forwards and backwards, creating the most delicious friction.

For a while their breathy moans and gasps and grunts were all that filled the dim living room. Despite their intial urgency they were taking their time, settling into a lazy rhythm now, kissing and touching, knowing this was not more than a beginning, and when Sherlock wrapped one hand around them both it only needed a few quick strokes to make them both come.

**oooOOOooo**

John smiled when he realised that Sherlock had fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. John's face, pressed to Sherlock's bare chest rose in time with the breathing and the steady _throb throb throb_ of his lover's heart was utterly soothing, easily leading John to the brink of sleep himself.

A lazy smirk accompanied John's drowsy thoughts when this word - _lover lover lover_ - started rotating in his mind, creating an hypnotic chant, almost drowning out all other thoughts. For the first time in months John was fairly confident that nothing could possible come between them. For once the future held no threat for him.

And that was a thought which made John Watson unaccountably happy.

* * *

**A/N**

I felt that Sherlock and John were in desperate need of a bit of healing, some kisses and more. As we all know, truly awful times lie ahead of them.

If you enjoyed reading it would be so lovely if you could spare a moment and leave a thought :)

Thank you so much for all the feedback this fic received so far ... see you soon,

JJ xx


	6. The Reichenbach Fall

**The Reichenbach Fall**

'Anything special today?'

John passed Sherlock on his way from the bathroom to their living room. Sherlock was perched at the kitchen table, peering at some small object which was obviously occupying all his senses. John lightly placed a hand on his shoulder and dropped a kiss on the unruly mop of dark curls, still damp from the shower. As expected Sherlock did not respond, but John knew how to take his silence. He also knew that one corner of Sherlock's mouth would be turned up in one of those small lopsided smiles of his - because that's what he invariably did.

'I'm off to see Harry later today,' John grabbed his mug of tea and the morning paper to take up residence in the living room. With a happy grunt he sat down in his chair, not willing to leave until he had read the whole paper from cover to back. This was one of his weekend prerogatives and not one he would give up lightly.

That was the moment when Sherlock lifted his head to watch John, the way he wiggled in the lumpy chair until he had found the most comfortable position, grabbed his mug of tea from the little sidetable and drank with obvious delight. Calmness settled over Sherlock, now that John was near him, and for a few blissful moments more he indulged in watching him.

'I know that you are watching me, Sherlock.'

'Problem?'

'Not at all!'

Sherlock got up from his chair and walked over to John. Bending down he gently kissed him on the lips, the touch warm and familiar. They smiled at each other and without another word Sherlock returned to the kitchen table and resumed working on the cold case. Both of them were prepared to spend the next hours in this state of content familiarity, neither of them wishing to be somewhere else.

After twenty minutes, John had just started on the comment section, the low, but very distinctive _ping _alerted Sherlock that he had received a text. After his morning shower he had left his mobile on the coffee table, out of his reach now, but close to John.

'I'll get it for you, shall I?' John said and grabbed the blasted thing to hand it over to Sherlock, who of course had not moved an inch. Nothing new there, John thought and smirked. His glance fell on the display of the mobile and a wave of nausea washed over him.

'Sherlock, it's him,' he gasped out. 'He's back. Moriarty's back.'

**oooOOOooo**

_Usually Sherlock would not waste any superfluous thought on how to say goodbye. Or linger on what it entailed, how it was executed, what it meant. _

_Why should he? _

_There never had been a meaningful goodbye in his life. On the contrary, he was always happy to see Mycroft's back, let alone his mother's, who could be quite a handful with her overbearing motherly love. Lestrade would never go anywhere, and Molly Hooper was a helper and very convenient, but saying goodbye to any of them would never have overly worried Sherlock. In fact, not one of the farewells he had spoken in the past had meant anything. How could they when you were sure to meet again?_

_But how can you say goodbye to the person you love? How can you leave this one person behind? How can any word even remotely express what it means to you? _

_And how can you say goodbye without actually saying it? _

_How?_

**oooOOOooo**

'I can't do it!'

Molly Hooper looked over her shoulder and stopped ranging the perishable foods in the fridge.

'I just can't _do_ it!'

Sherlock ruffled his hands through his hair in such a violent manner that Molly involuntarily flinched.

'What?'

'This!' Sherlock spat and looked up at her. With an angry flick of his wrist he vaguely indicated the flat, her. Slumping against the back of the sofa he screwed his eyes shut, grinding the heels of his hands into them. All his movements were too large, Molly thought, the emotions too blatant. She turned back and continued ranging the milk, eggs and butter into the fridge, unwilling to go through this drama again. Every night since Sherlock had joined her after the fall they had gone through this display of emotions, and every night it became worse.

When she had agreed to let him stay in her spare room, he had assured her it would only be for two, maybe three nights. But seven days had passed without any sign of this coming to an end any time soon, and Sherlock was slowly going mad with grief and forced inertia.

Molly firmly told herself not to turn around and cofront him, lest a gesture or a wrong word should fuel his anger, his desperation, and most of all, the all-consuming sadness which was eating him from within.

From what she had gleaned Sherlock looked a mess tonight. His thin torso was covered by a ratty T-shirt, his legs clad in striped pyjama bottoms and his feet bare despite the cold in the flat. The dark stubble on his cheeks was a ghostly contrast to his pale skin, and his usually tamed curls looked tangled and unwashed. His movements were jerky, an angry undercurrent apparent in every move.

Sherlock's whole demeanour reminded her more and more of that of a caged wild animal. Cooped up in her small flat he was irritated, angered and slowly going out of his mind. Obviously, it was out of the question that he should go outside and present himself to a world which believed him a fake and dead.

All of that was his brother Mycroft's fault, who took awfully long to organise Sherlock's transfer out of the country. As far as Molly knew Mycroft, or rather his minions, were still negotiating with the intelligence services of the various countries Sherlock was expected to go to to dismantle Moriarty's evil empire. She knew that all Sherlock desperately wanted was to get going, to destroy Moriarty's web, and thereby get his reputation and his life back as soon as possible.

Molly understood, of course she did, but every night she prayed for Mycroft to make that one, decisive call. Having Sherlock here was a veritable test of patience and it proved harder and harder for her not to lash out at him when he snapped at for the smallest things.

She paused in her thoughts and gazed out of the kitchen window, her fingers absentmindedly playing with a pack of oatmeal. Despite all, her heart quietly broke when she saw this tall, proud man literally crumble to pieces right in front of her eyes. Being without John was unbearable for Sherlock, and knowingly deceiving his partner, making him believe he was dead, was a cowardly deed which cut his heart out.

With a sigh Molly tore her gaze away from the window and ranged the oatmeal in the cupboard and the bananas and the oranges in the fruit bowl - healthy food which very likely only she would eat - before she joined Sherlock on the sofa.

His posture was unyielding and she knew better than to soothingly pat his shoulder or to wrap her arms around him to offer comfort as she would have done with any other friend. She merely sat down next to him.

'Did Mycroft get in touch today?'

'Shortly.'

'And?'

'Apparently it takes a lot longer than anticipated to create a false identity. Even for my precious brother. He assured me it's only a matter of days now.'

'I see.'

Molly saw his shoulders tense, grief and sorrow etched into the lines of his body. Toby, Molly's cat, jumped down from the kitchen counter and joined them on the sofa, bumping his head against Sherlock's bare arm, demanding to be caressed. Sherlock ignored him and continued talking.

'I need to get away, Molly. I can't bear being in the same town as him and not being able to see him. I just...' he bit back his words and hung his head, still trying to hide his emotions from her. His chest heaved with the stifled sobs, with the sheer force of keeping it all in. 'I just can't do it!'

'I understand,' Molly touched Toby who was sitting between them because she did not dare touching Sherlock. Stroking the soft grey fur of her cat calmed her and on impulse she grabbed Sherlock's hand and placed it on Toby's back, for a moment covering the long pale fingers with her own much smaller hand to keep him from snatching it away.

Sherlock huffed, but left his hand where it was. Molly got up, 'I'll make something to eat, shall I?'

She was glad to put distance between them. As touching as Sherlock's grief was, there was something else which bothered her. She would be lying if she claimed to be over Sherlock, and having him here - longing for John, and his indifference towards her more than blatant - hurt. Suddenly ashamed of the pettiness of her train of thought, Molly bit her lips.

'Anything you fancy for supper?'

Sherlock did not answer. His hand was still on Toby's back, his fingers moving along the cat's spine absentmindedly. There was a faraway look in Sherlock's eyes as if he focused on something only he could see. The expression on his face was tender and sad at the same time - He was with him.

'Well, I just make some pasta and a salad.' Molly said to the cold room. 'And there's fresh fruit if you want some.'

Molly's gaze lingered on Sherlock, willing him to acknowledge her, but then she left the living room to get changed and to prepare for another silent evening with a ghost.

**oooOOOooo**

_From the moment this maniac had been in touch Sherlock changed. As if a mist had descended on him, shrouding everything which made him human and warm, only leaving the rational, cold detective persona, turned on by the puzzle he was given. _

_Well, at least at the beginning, but soon John sensed that this time there was more to it. A fundamental fear then gripped him, shook him to the core and left him panting, and he knew that Sherlock felt it, too. Very unlike the first time it was, when Sherlock had enjoyed dancing to the tune of this maniac. This time it was personal and Sherlock realised that it was all or nothing, Moriarty or him._

_And it seemed that John had no say at all in that matter._

**oooOOOooo**

John tossed and turned on the sofa. Every night since Sherlock's suicide he had fallen asleep in the living room, in his chair or on the sofa. He avoided the familiarity of their bedroom like the plague, avoided his own room, shunned the easy comfort of a duvet and a soft mattress.

John turned on his back and stretched his legs. His naked feet touched the armrest and he pressed his toes against the hard leather until it hurt. He welcomed the pain as a counterweight to the one in his heart. A piercing, raw and gut-wrenching pain which never relented, never slept. John's eyes welled up and the tears spilled over, coursing down his cheeks, no sound, no sob accompanying them. The past days had taught him that there was nothing to soothe him, nothing to soften the blow and so he had given up on finding comfort and simply let things slide.

Turning his tear-stained face he took in the dusty gloom of their living room, the mess on the floor, and the empty leather chair - Sherlock's chair - taking centre stage. The book he had last been reading was still on the seat, and the mug of tea John had made him that fateful morning still sat on the rug beside it.

With a grunt John got up and grabbed it. He knew he had to be quick before his determination would dwindle and the half-empty mug would stay there on the rug, never to be rinsed out. It felt like a dead weight in his hand and he shuffled to the kitchen sink like an old man.

It was when the rinsed mug joined his own on the drying rack that the pain clamped around his heart with a violence that made him bend over and clutch his stomach. The onslaught of grief left him panting and dizzy, and this was the one moment of weakness another notion had been slyly waiting for to sneak into his heart.

One that spoke of betrayal and disappointment and was fuelled by the many questions John needed an answer for. Hurtful questions, and merely thinking them made him feel cold and hollow.

Why on earth had Sherlock never talked to him? Why had he kept everything hidden inside? Why had he not trusted him? Never breathed a word about his desperation? Was he not worthy to be trusted? Was he not worthy to be a confidant?

John knew he could have helped him, surely, together they would have found a way out - Why suicide? Why this coward's way out? It was so unlike Sherlock, and what hurt John most was that a suicide left no room for goodbies. All John was left with was the haunting images of Sherlock's broken body on the pavement and his bloodied face, eerily beautiful even in death.

And all of that just because people could believe him a fake? What did John care about Sherlock's reputation? _Fuck all!_ He would have stayed with him if he had been a penniless beggar, a crazed lunatic ... And all he wanted right now was having him back, alive and breathing, here with him - Anger rose in John's chest and he let it and when this anger begged for release he slammed his hands hard onto the kitchen table.

Perversely, it helped him, it was good to feel something different than this raw, gut-wrenching sadness for once. John straightened his back and squared his shoulders. His gaze fell on the kitchen table, on all the chaos that still spoke of Sherlock's experiments and his passion for solving puzzles, and that was all it took for the grief to come roaring back with brutal force. John covered his eyes, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks and down his chin. Crying shook his chest, the occasional sob cutting through the dim coldness of their flat.

Right now, John had no idea how he should continue living here, it seemed impossible. He could not bear having all this stuff around him, every book, cup, Petri dish reminding him of Sherlock and their life together.

No, he could not stay here at 221B, if he wanted to stay sane he needed to get out.

**oooOOOooo**

Lying on the narrow bed in Molly's spare room, Sherlock tried to find sleep, a little respite from the endless boredom that were his days. He was aware it would probably prove impossible as sleep was an elusive creature at the best of times, and these days it was mostly cruelly mocking him.

He tried to calm down and focus on John, conjuring up the image of his love, the dark blue eyes, the laughter lines, the open, warm smile - the true one - that only Sherlock could earn. Tried to focus on the happiness they had shared since they had met, the profound love since they had been brave enough to face what they meant for each other.

Invariably, though, his thoughts would return to the deceit, to the fall. Before, Sherlock had firmly believed that it would be enough to know that there was no alternative to leaving John in the dark to placate his conscience. Now he found that these thoughts only made him nauseous and cringe with shame.

Soon nausea was washing over him in waves and he had to get up and open a window. Greedily he sucked in the fresh night air, leaning his forehead against the cool window pane. That everything in his power had to be done to destroy Moriarty's legacy once and for all was evident. It was driving him out of his mind, though, that even in death Moriarty managed to hurt him and John and everybody else he held dear. It left him no choice, he had to go through with the plan - there was no way around it.

Sherlock breathed slowly, calming his racing heart, but as much as he tried to chase away the nagging feeling of treason, it had already brazenly built a home in his mind palace, right next to John's room, and whenever he retreated to his sanctuary, he had to pass it.

He blinked when those dark thoughts tried to further invade him and John's image started to fade, to get frazzled around the edges.

'Stay,' he whispered against the window pane. 'Not yet ... please.'

Sherlock huffed out a frustrated grunt, pressing his palms to his temple. He knew John's face would pale and fade eventually, but not yet, not after barely one week. He fought with all his willpower to call him back and his effort earned him a warm smile when John's image danced in front of his mind's eye again, clear and large as life.

'Don't go, John,' he said.

_I won't ... I won't! Remember? You've got me._

Tears formed behind Sherlock's eyes. He could feel those traitors unite, warm and waiting to be released, and he forced them back. Even with only the image of John present he wanted to be strong, did not want to cry, but as much as he fought it, desperation had taken hold of him, slowly hollowing him out from the inside.

'John.' he whispered. 'I can't do it. I have no idea how I can do this without you.'

Leaning against the window pane he stared into the cold night and the only thought that held a modicum of comfort was that John would be sleeping under the same London night sky.

Soon, even that comfort would be taken away from him.

* * *

**A/N**

Thank you so much for your feedback and your continuing support! I'm always more than happy to read what you think :)

Well, from now on it can only get better for the boys ... eventually.

See you!

JJ xx


	7. The Empty Hearse

**The Empty Hearse**

'Mary?'

John closed the front door of their flat, turned on the light and shrugged out of his jacket. His tired sigh when he bent down to take off his shoes in the impeccable neatness of the hall was only answered by silence. Mary had not yet returned from her dinner with her best friend Janine.

As always there was not a speck of dust or a hint of disorder to be found in the narrow hallway. Mary's good red coat was hanging side by side on the coat rack with John's battered black jacket, the one he was unwilling to part with, and their shoes were arranged in a line, almost military in its precision, on a wooden shelf beneath. John made sure to align his loafers with Mary's shoes lest something should disturb the holy grail of _Mary neatness_.

John grimaced and tried to suppress those rather petty thoughts. He knew he was being unfair, and that deep down he admired her sense of neatness. It was just that lately this order had the tendency to become a bit stifling and made him long for the cosy chaos of 221B. John straightened his back and wiped his hand over his tired eyes in an attempt to keep those memories at bay**.**

Passing the tiny kitchen to grab a bottle of water he settled on the sofa in the living room with a grunt, thoroughly enjoying the peace and quiet. Nothing was out of line here either, the books arranged in an aesthetically pleasing way, the wallpaper and the cushions celebrating a happy and colourful union, the rugs tasteful in their subdued elegance and carefully chosen to match the cream coloured linen sofa.

John closed his eyes, suddenly tired of so much perfection. When he opened them again, his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the one item standing out. A shabby shoe box Lestrade had brought round a few days ago. The box contained some memorabilia from their past cases, things Greg had thought John might want. The pink phone for example, a mask, and among other things a DVD. So far John had not had the heart to move the box from where Lestrade had set it down, and Mary had not touched it either.

John's eyes flickered from the box to the flatscreen TV on the wall and with a sigh he leaned forward and grabbed the remote control. Toying with it for a moment he considered his options, but then he pressed play, willing to sit through Sherlock's birthday message yet again. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself to be confronted with his face and his voice, alive and well, if only on the screen.

Forcing himself to sit through this message was a kind of therapy, devised to deceive himself into believing that the pain wasn't as bad as it used to be, that he was over him, that he had healed. John swallowed around a lump in his throat and closed his eyes. It was about bloody time, wasn't it? Almost two years after Sherlock had committed suicide and left him behind.

On impulse he paused the DVD, and got up to pour himself a generous measure of whisky. Who was he trying to fool here? Truth was, he needed all the help he could get to be able to watch Sherlock's message once again.

**oooOOOooo**

The tiredness was etched into his bones, had settled deep, deep inside him. It was so unlike him, this drowsiness, his body begging him to sleep as long as his restless mind would let him. Sleep to sleep, sleep to forget. Forget the horrors of the past two years.

Sherlock sighed, all he had wanted then was Moriarty destroyed, his reputation restored and his life back. All he wanted now was John.

He sank back into the luxurious softness of the leather seats in Mycroft's car. His brother had let him use his driver to take him back to Baker Street. Closing his eyes, he relived the last moments of their conversation - _John? He's no longer there! Why should he? He has moved on _- Words, coldly spoken, like a punch to the gut, and it had taken all Sherlock's will power not to lash out and let his desperation take control of him. Instead he had attempted a smile and remained outwardly unaffected - _Conceal - suppress - detach _- a technique he had perfected in the past two years of involuntary loneliness.

Mycroft had merely raised a sarcastic eyebrow, but had wisely chosen not to comment on his little brother's behaviour. The conversation had never recovered from this blow and Sherlock quickly made excuses to leave Mycroft's office. He needed to be alone.

That John had left 221B was not surprising, after all, he believed Sherlock dead. Not surprising, but hurting nonetheless. Obviously, Sherlock had not expected to return and simply resume life where he had left it, but he would have been grateful for less drama.

Sherlock looked out of the windows, at London whooshing past. Oh, there was so much he had to get used to again, the smell, the speed, the noise. He had missed London, the quivering heart of his city, the secrets it harboured, the excitement it held in abundance.

From what he gleaned from his trip home London had not changed much. Something he could not claim for himself, though. Sherlock was wearier, he was colder, he was even more impatient than before the fall. He was aware of it and he relied on John to heal him. It was crucial that he saw John as quickly as possible.

After what Mycroft had told him, Sherlock had no idea how their reunion would go, had no idea how John would react to seeing a face from the past. John was a proud man, an outwardly calm, but very emotional man. There would be shouting and anger and tears, and despite Sherlock's wish for a quiet return, he knew that he would take anything John would throw at him. Anything at all.

All he could hope for was that John would forgive him eventually.

**oooOOOooo**

Mary had been great in the past months, she had helped him out of the bleak hole he had willingly fallen into after Sherlock's suicide. Deep down inside John knew that it was her presence which had kept him alive. She could make him laugh, she was there for him, she might even be the centre of his life now, but she could not make him happy.

They had met five months ago, and John had moved into her flat six weeks into their acquaintance. At that point anything had seemed better than wasting his life in a sad, poky bedsit in Camden.

The way he had lived since Sherlock's death could not have been more different to his happy and fulfilled life with his beloved madman. Camden instead of Baker Street, surgery instead of 's, boredom instead of chasing criminals, grief, denial and depression instead of happiness and love. No wonder he had leapt at the chance to leave this sad life behind.

But soon after they had moved in together, John had felt that it had been a mistake and he had been torn between returning to his bedsit or sticking with this slightly boring and very domesticated life as Dr John Watson, GP. He knew that Mary loved him, she had told him dozens of times. But John could not reciprocate, not even for her sake. There was a lump in his throat every time she expected him to say it, a lump these three little words could not pass. But, there was no doubt that she had given him a reason to live again and John knew that he owed her.

Mary was a nurse, and she worked at the same surgery as John, in fact, that's where they had met - _office romance_ - so to speak. She had been funny, easy going and normal, and she had agreed when John had asked her out on a date, and then another one, and soon they spent all their free time together. Everything between them was blissfully normal, even the sex, and their life was like a steady, quiet stream.

When John checked his watch and saw that it was almost time to clock off, he remembered that tonight was the night Mary had planned something special for them. She had been very secretive, all John knew was that he was expected at a fancy restaurant and that his best suit was waiting for him in the changing room of the surgery. Mary had smiled like a Cheshire Cat all morning, clearly thrilled to bits by what she had planned for them.

John felt a pang of guilt when he realised that he did not share her excitement as much as he probably should.

He sighed and called in the last patient. There was still enough time before he had to leave to find a bit of anticipation for whatever Mary had in store for him.

**oooOOOooo**

Sherlock squared his shoulders when the cab with its precious fare finally pulled up. He allowed himself to study John in the light of the streetlamps as he got out and paid the driver, before he turned away from the window and prepared for battle. The familiar footsteps up the sixteen steps to their flat sounded tired and very unlike the energetic version he remembered. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, making him nauseous and tense.

'Where's Mary?'

'I dropped her off at our... her place.'

'Right.'

Sherlock's heart clenched when he took in John's unyielding posture, both hands firmly clasped behind his back as if he did not trust himself and needed to keep his fists in check. He remained standing close to the door, not quite entering, letting his eyes travel through the once familiar room.

In the few hours since his return Sherlock had done his best to make the flat habitable. Mrs Hudson had helped, in turns awkwardly hugging him and trying hard not to cry and helping him range his few belongings. In hindsight it had been wise to turn on the gas fire in the fireplace as it helped to take the chill off the moment.

'That was quite a stunt you pulled tonight,' John said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. 'A waiter in a posh restaurant! A perfect disguise, complete with fake moustache and fake French accent. You must be proud of yourself.'

Sherlock averted his gaze. 'A bit mean to surprise you like that, John. I know, and I can only apologise again.'

John nodded and stood on tiptoes for a second before he puffed out his chest. In combination with the moustache Sherlock had immediately disliked, the motions gave him a distinctly old man appearance and Sherlock smirked.

'Funny, is it?' John spat out and his hands shot forward, the index finger of his right hand angrily stabbing the air. 'This is not funny, Sherlock. Do you hear me? Far from it!'

John fumed with the effort to make this clear once and for all. With a few quick strides he closed the gap between them and stopped right in front of Sherlock who stood his ground, willing to take John's anger. As much anger and abuse as John deemed right, in fact. He bit his lips and remained silent.

'Have you got any idea what I went through? After you _killed_ yourself? Hm?' John spoke quietly, the ostensible calmness making Sherlock's skin prickle. 'I thought it was all my fault, that I had failed you and it drove me up the wall that you had denied me any chance to help you.' John cleared his throat, but he held Sherlock's gaze, his eyes burning with suppressed rage.

'But now it turns out that you did not need my help at all! No! Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes - oh and let's not forget Molly Hooper and at least twenty-five tramps - did NOT NEED MY HELP!' John shouted the last words and Sherlock flinched as if John had hit him, but he forced himself not to turn away. 'Turns out you were doing perfectly fine without me!'

'John, calm down!' Despite himself the corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up in a mocking smile, but when he saw John's incredulous reaction to this inappropriate gesture, he grew serious again. 'How can you believe that? Of course, I would have accepted your help. But I could not let you in on the scheme, believe me there was no way around what I did ...'

'_Jesus_, Sherlock! How could you let me believe you were dead? Have you got any idea what this means? Losing the one person you love most in the world?' Sherlock's eyes widened, and John's face softened marginally. 'Why did you not contact me? Why did you let me grieve for two years? Why?' John closed his eyes. 'I... I had to leave 221B, I had to move on, I simply had to... and if it hadn't been for Mary, I probably would not be here anymore.'

John's last words were like a punch to the gut and Sherlock reached out to touch him. His courage left him when he saw the anger flare up again in John's eyes and he let his hand sink to his side.

'I had no idea,' He said instead, his voice brittle and devoid of all his usual cockiness. It was a lie - Of course he knew what it meant to leave a loved one behind, of course he did. But this was not about himself and so he chose to ignore and deny all the pain that had accompanied those past two years. This was John's grief and he wanted to give him room for it.

'Yeah, well.' John seemed embarrassed and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He attempted a small smile, but it was dominated by sadness and the tears gathering in his eyes. He noisily exhaled and all of a sudden all the fight left him and he was tired of this anger and rage and grief and stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist.

'Bloody hell, Sherlock' he whispered against his chest. 'What have you done?'

Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around John, glad that he was allowed to touch, and his lips lightly brushed over John's hair, more grey than blond now.

'I'm sorry, so sorry ...' Sherlock kissed the crown of John's head, mumbling apologies and inhaling John's scent which was essentially the same as he remembered. But he noticed other underlying nuances which he attributed to Mary and John's life away from 221B.

'I don't know what to do now,' John said. 'I can't just leave her, can I?'

Sherlock had no answer, at least not one that John would help. He wanted to scream - _leave her, come back to me, what do you want with her_ - but he kept quiet. Instead he held John, relished the feeling of holding another human being, of feeling wanted and of finally being home again.

'I have to talk to Mary, explain everything...' John mumbled against Sherlock's shirt. 'I owe her that.'

'Yes... you probably do,' Sherlock conceded, just for the sake of saying something. He had no intention of discussing Mary, or their love life, or any anything else pertaining to John and this woman, not at all. But he knew all to well that John, loyal creature that he was, would not just abandon her. And that he better not push or influence him.

Suddenly John stilled as if something had hit him. He cleared his throat and broke their embrace, stepping away from Sherlock.

'There's something else I need to tell to, Sherlock.'

'Yes?'

'Tonight was a special night for Mary... and for me,' John hesitated, working up the courage to continue. 'An official celebration so to speak as last week Mary had asked me to marry her.'

Sherlock merely nodded because a weight had descended on his chest, pressing all life from him. To phrase the question was an enormous effort, but of course it had to be done.

'How did you reply?'

'I said yes.'

Suddenly Sherlock felt as if the ground was pulled from underneath his feet and he was falling, falling, falling, and this time there was nothing to mercifully break his fall. This time it was for real.

**ooo**

'There you are,' a soft voice murmured, the words like a caress on his dry skin. 'Glad to have you back.'

'What happened?'

'You swooned.'

'Do people actually do that?'

'Yep, they do.'

'Did I...?' Sherlock patted his arms, checking for injuries and John frowned. It was not the first time Sherlock did that, so much was evident, and John wondered what exactly he had been through those last two years.

'No, you're fine. You just bumped your head against the sofa, but your head is sturdy and the sofa is not. It's all fine.'

'Why for God's sakes did I swoon?'

John shrugged, busying himself with taking off his jacket. He would not be the one to repeat what he had said a few minutes earlier. The answer which had shocked Sherlock into swooning.

'When have you last eaten?' he asked instead, determined to take the easy way out, for Sherlock's as well as his own sake.

Sherlock frowned, pretending to think hard.

'I don't believe it! You can't even remember! You're worse than when we lived...' John broke off and bit his lips. He glanced at Sherlock who was sitting on the floor, his back leaning against the sofa, very pale and very shaken.

'Come on, let's get you into bed. And then I'll make you something to eat.' John motioned towards the kitchen. 'I take it there's not much in the fridge, but I'll pop down to Mrs Hudson's. Come on!' John wrapped one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and used the other to help him up from the floor. The fact that no snarky remark acompanied this manoeuvre told him more about Sherlock's general state than he wanted to know. Sadness rose in his chest and bile collected in his mouth. He gulped, trying to get of rid it.

'John, don't leave me. Please.' Sherlock whispered, resting his head against John's shoulder, his voice weak and defeated.

'I'm not going anywhere. Don't worry. You've got me, remember?'

Sherlock's heart missed a beat when he heard those words and he glanced up and searched John's face for any pretence or irony or mockery, but there was only concern and friendliness. Sherlock nodded, leaning heavily on John. Together they managed to negotiate their way into Sherlock's old bedroom. Thankfully Mrs Hudson had been busy here as well and so John could lower Sherlock slowly and carefully onto a freshly made bed.

It was only much later after Sherlock had eaten and they were both lying next to each other that he realised that this was the first time in over two years that he had set foot into this room. And it felt like he had come home.

**ooo**

They talked for hours, leaving nothing out. John had made it clear very early on that he was not in the least interested in how Sherlock had done it. He wanted to know why, he needed to understand, and so Sherlock told him about Moriarty's snipers, about his desperation, and that faking his death had been the only way to save him.

'I have been nearly in contact so many times' Sherlock said at one point as way of apology and John snorted. But he believed him. Believed him because he could actually see the pain that had transformed Sherlock.

And Sherlock in turn marvelled at John's pain, laid out before him, already fading in the glow of their reunion. He listened, he apologised and he let John rant and rave, but not one single word was uttered to describe the horrors he himself had been forced to live through, he did not even scratch the surface of the cruelties which had been necessary to dismantle Moriarty's web. Not one word about the physical and psychological injuries these past two years had inflicted on Sherlock. Instead he answered John's enquiries with 'You know my methods, John. I'm known to be indestructible.'

They fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, exhausted and drained. But they had found sleep in the knowledge that a truce had been reached, the barriers lowered.

Mrs Hudson, who came up to their flat to bring tea at eight in the morning, poked her head into the bedroom, uanshamed and driven by curiosity, and found them sleeping peacefully. Sherlock's head rested on John's chest, his arms were draped over John's belly and their legs interwined. They could not be more connected and Mrs Hudson breathed a sigh of relief.

**ooo**

Sherlock woke with a start and immediately scanned his surroundings. A legacy of his two years in hiding, and when the familiarity of his own room sank in his racing heart gradually slowed down and he shakily exhaled, breathing through the panic that was fluttering in his chest like a little caged bird.

'Hmmph,' John mumbled next to him and Sherlock smiled the last shreds of panic away. He turned onto his side, facing John. With his index finger he gently brushed away a strand of hair from John's forehead, eliciting a sweet smile.

'Morning,' John said, his eyes still closed and then shuffled forward to snuggle closer to Sherlock. 'What time is it?'

'I don't know,' Sherlock said, his voice low and gentle. 'I guess it's past eight. Mrs Hudson has already been.'

'She has?' John opened his eyes and turned away from Sherlock, his eyes scanning the room. True enough, there was a tray, laden with a teapot, mugs and a plate of buttered toast on the chair next to the chest of drawers. 'What a gem,' John said and turned back to Sherlock, close, so close.

'Sherlock, what are we going to do?' John's face clouded over and on impulse Sherlock leaned in and kissed the frown on his forehead away, placed kisses on both eyelids, his cheeks and then, reverently taking his time, he kissed John's lips, knowing full well that he was merely delaying the inevitable. Their eyes locked and the expression in John's dark eyes made Sherlock break off their kiss. He moved away a bit, giving John room. He was silent, waiting. It was John who had to make the decision and it was John who had to say it.

John bit his lips and stared at Sherlock, willing him to break the spell, to say something, to help him, but he simply remained silent. So it was John who decided for them.

'I'm going to talk to Mary. I'll call her after breakfast and then I will go to her place and we'll sort this out.' John's hand cupped Sherlock's cheek and then he kissed Sherlock again, his thumb gently caressing the soft and warm skin.

'And then?' Sherlock whispered when he could not take it any longer.

'And then I will come back to you.'

* * *

**A/N**

For the last three chapters I am going to take the liberty to tamper a bit with the timeline and with the facts. Obviously, in my version of events Mary needs to be the one to have 'popped the question' and not John.

I would be so very grateful if you took a tiny moment to tell me what you think, your comments are my bread and butter as a writer ... AND they really make my day!

Thank you ever so much :)

JJ xx


	8. The Sign of Three

**The Sign of Three**

'You won't go back to him.'

'Mary,' John dipped his chin and sighed. 'I understand that you are upset. And you have every right to be. But you must have noticed yourself that it wasn't working.' John attempted a reassuring smile aimed at no one in particular. He realised that he was still avoiding eye contact. 'Please don't think that it's your fault. Of course it's not. But I need Sherlock, I love him. And now that he's back…'

'No, you don't understand, John. I won't let you.'

John looked at Mary then and noticed the cold expression on her face. He had never before seen her like that and he was taken aback by her gaze, which was calculating, hard and unwavering.

'I don't think this is a question of you letting me go or not! I'm sorry this has to end like that, but I _will_ go back to him.'

John leaned against the window sill, aiming for nonchalance that he did not feel. His heart was racing due to the anxiety of the moment and his hands were sweating. Trying to gather his thoughts he closed his eyes. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to end this discussion which seemed to have entered an infinite loop of accusations and justifications.

'Mary,' he tried again. 'We are both adults and we should face the facts. I know it hurts, but I really hope we can end this in a civilised way. So, please don't make this any harder than it already is.'

'Why?' Her voice had a pleading undertone now and John marginally relaxed. He could deal with that.

'It's hard to explain. When I saw him yesterday everything came rushing back. Bloody hell, I was so angry with him because of the stunt he had pulled, but I realised then and there that I am not over him, that I still love him and want to be with him.' John shrugged because words were not enough to describe the wave of passion he had felt for Sherlock, a wave which naturally had to drown everything else.

'But how can you even forgive him?' Mary's voice was shrill now and John involuntarily winced. 'He betrayed you. _You_ weren't worth his trust. Did he tell you about the scheme? No, he did not. Oh, but he told his brother, and what's-her-name Hooper and his dirty tramps. Everybody, but not you! How can this be love? That's not loving somebody, that's mockery!'

'Mary, I don't expect you to give me your blessing. But let's be sensible…'

'No, John,' Mary interrupted John and the tentative pleading was gone from her voice, only to be replaced by a cold and angry cheekiness. 'I am not being _sensible_ here. Why on earth should I be sensible?' In a flash the anger was gone again, and she smiled, but what an ugly smile it was, one that only spoke of victory and triumph. 'I tell you, you won't go back to him and we will go through with the wedding as planned.'

John sighed, tired of all this talking. The atmosphere in the room was oppressive, lying like a stone on his heart. A need to move tickled him, a need to create more distance. But most of all he needed to go ahead now, and so pushed off the window sill and walked past Mary into their bedroom. Without another word he opened their wardrobe and started emptying his side of it, piling jumpers, shirts and denims onto the bed. Standing on tiptoes he managed to retrieve his suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. It joined his clothes and a half packed holdall on the bed. Growing more furious by the minute he started to empty his drawers, throwing socks and pants into the bag.

Mary eventually joined him in the bedroom, but chose not to enter. Instead she was leaning against the doorpost, her eyes following John's angry moves. John tried his best to ignore her presence and so he missed the small smile playing around her lips.

'John, you really can stop packing now. Save yourself the trouble.'

'Mary,' John said warningly. 'After all I told you, why should I still want to stay?

'Because if you don't you will never get to see your child, John. I'm ten weeks pregnant.'

**oooOOOooo**

Sherlock had been staring out of the window for the past twenty minutes. Every time a car turned into Baker Street, the glaring headlights making it impossible to discern what kind of car it was, Sherlock's heart leapt in anticipation. And every time the car accelerated down the road, passing 221B, he exhaled through his growing disappointment.

He knew he had to be patient, John had promised he would be returning to him tonight, and he knew that he would. Idly waiting for something to happen he could not influence was hard for somebody as impatient as Sherlock at the best of times, but waiting for his love to come back to him, proved harder and harder the longer it took. Without noticing Sherlock nervously worried the hem of the flimsy lace curtains, kneading the material between his fingers.

Again a car advanced down the road, a black cab, and this time it stopped right in front of the house. Sherlock craned his head to make out John's silhouette - _Why does it take so long? Why do you have to talk to the driver?- _Finally John opened the door and got out. He had no bag, no suitcase with him and Sherlock flinched as if someone had hit him. He closed his eyes and the air in the room perceptibly shifted towards the cold. Mere seconds later he heard John ascending the stairs. The sound was strangely muffled as if a fog had descended over Sherlock, toning down his perception.

Almost in a daze he turned around. He knew.

'How did she do it?'

'She's pregnant.'

'I see.'

Sherlock stuffed his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers and turned away, avoiding John's gaze. It was like a punch to the gut, and if it had not been so devastating, Sherlock would have laughed - _Pregnant!_ - The one thing that Sherlock could never offer, the one option that was only open to Mary, the one thing that only she could give John to bind him to her, a lifelong bond. Of course, it had to be that way.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and carefully schooled his face into an impassive expression. He inhaled and straightened his shoulders. Only then was he ready to face John who looked utterly miserable and beaten. Sherlock did not have the strength and the courage to walk up to him and to offer comfort. He knew he was beaten and it hurt like hell.

John cleared his throat. 'I hope we can still be friends?'

'Friends?' Sherlock rolled the word in his mouth, tasting the bitter flavour. 'Friends as in _I give you a call whenever my duties as a father will leave me a spare minute_? Or friends as in _I'll call you whenever I need a fix, the excitement and the thrill of a case_?'

'Something along those lines, yes.'

'Clearly.'

Sherlock felt hollow and cold, but two conflicting emotions began warring inside him to fill the void. His brain told him to make a clean cut, to accept and to forget and to eventually move on, whereas his heart wanted him to scream – _leave her, come back to me, what do you want with her?_ It was impossible for him to decide which way to go, not yet anyway.

'What about the wedding?'

'It will happen as planned.'

'I won't be there.'

'I know.'

Sherlock exhaled and felt all fight rushing out of him. The thought that he was losing out because he was not able to compete with biological facts was hanging over him like an oppressive cloud. What a maddening, infuriating and somehow ridiculous thing to have happened!

And in this moment Sherlock saw clearly that it had been a mistake to allow sentiment to rule him in the past years. It only left him hurting and destroyed and it was more than evident that in future he would need an armour of coldness and indifference if he wanted to make it through this moment and the next and then his life without John. And maybe he would even be in need of a bit more help to forget.

John watched him, growing more insecure and undecided by the second. 'Well, I'll better be gone then.'

Sherlock nodded and John made to go before he turned back and, his voice breaking and heavy with everything left unsaid, he added. 'Remember that you've got me. Please never forget that.'

And then he left.

Only when the sound of John's footsteps had almost faded away did Sherlock dare to speak into the lingering silence.

'But I don't have you. Not now, and maybe I never will again.'

He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down in his chair, closing his eyes, desperately trying to flee the stifling emptiness John had left behind. The sudden noise of somebody bounding up the stairs and into the living room startled him.

'Would you like to go for a walk with me?'

Sherlock had no words left to answer and merely nodded. In an instant he was out of his chair and grabbed his coat and scarf, and side by side, their fingers brushing with every step, John and Sherlock left 221B and descended the stairs.

**oooOOOooo**

John sat down on the bed, a pile of shirts tumbling messily down to the floor without him noticing. 'Are you sure?'

'Of course I am sure! How can you even ask? You? A doctor?' Mary snorted, and John thought how unbecoming her attitude was.

'Who's your gynaecologist?'

'Doctor Gupta, you don't know her, over at the Ormond Road surgery. Janine's recommendation.' Mary divulged the information in an oddly detached manner, as if she was talking to a neighbour, chatting about the best recipe for bangers and mash. 'Apparently she's very good.'

'Why did you not stay with Doctor Jameson? What's wrong with him?'

'Well, you know what it's like. I really don't want all our colleagues to know. At least, not right from the start. There will be a moment when they have to know, obviously. But until then, I'd like to keep the chinwag at bay.'

John smiled a sad little smile, she really had thought this through. Thought of everything, in fact. Even her proposal last week began to appear in quite a different light. It reeked of clawing for security, of ensuring he'd stay. Despite all this, John could not help feeling a tiny flutter of excitement in his belly.

'I'm going to be a dad,' he said softly and looked at Mary. But when he saw her triumphant smile, all his excitement died and the grim realisation of what this meant hit him.

'I have to talk to Sherlock.' John got up and adjusting his shirt he adopted a competitive, hard demeanour, involuntarily mirroring Mary's threatening attitude. 'I will go now and _you_ can't stop me!'

'Sure. That's fine.' Mary's smile was sweet, the falseness of it making John's stomach turn. 'You have to say goodbye, I understand.'

She turned around and made to leave the bedroom only to stop and address him once more.

'John, do tell Sherlock that the second he starts bothering us or snooping around your child will be off-limits for you! Got that?'

**oooOOOooo**

They walked along Baker Street, the chilly darkness of this November evening enveloping them. As soon as they entered the park, they joined hands, their connection needed and inevitable. They walked on, easily falling into step, intending to cross the park towards Euston Station and continue from there wherever the mood would take them. Where exactly was not important.

Sherlock glanced at John, taking in his handsome face and noticed that he had shaved off his moustache, a detail which he had missed in all the earlier dark excitement. Squeezing John's hand he said, 'I'm glad you shaved it off, I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.'

John snorted, 'That's not a sentence you hear very often.'

'But it's true.'

Despite all Sherlock enjoyed this moment and wanted to make the most of their contact. He did not care if it was appropriate and he stubbornly ignored his mind telling him to detach and to delete- _Stop it!_ – he hissed and squeezed John's hand again.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

If this was to be his last chance to touch John he would take it, even fight for it and not give in easily. John's hand was cold, but it fit perfectly into Sherlock's and that was all that was important right now.

They walked on in silence, and they both felt that there was nothing more to say. With every step they took Sherlock grew sadder and sadder and the loneliness which would soon be his only companion was slowly seeping into every nook and cranny of his heart. How bizarre, he thought, to walk next to the man he loved more than anything in this world and to feel lonelier than ever.

John must have felt that something was dramatically amiss because he stopped dead in the middle of the path and turned to Sherlock. The darkness surrounding them was almost absolute, the blackness only pierced by pinpricks of light cast by the odd streetlamp. When John started to speak, very quietly, Sherlock had to strain his ears to catch his words.

'I wish I could turn back time, Sherlock. I wish, with all my heart, that you had never left me. I wish you had talked to me then.' The words, but even more so the way they were uttered, were mesmerising and Sherlock moved closer to John. 'But I am elated that you came back to me and I forgave you. If only you'd come back sooner, leaving me a choice... I so wish my situation were different now and most of all I wish I could stay with you.'

John paused for a moment and Sherlock assumed he had run out of things to say. He dipped his chin, for once not controllling his emotions, but then John's hand cupped his face and smoothed away the tears which were silently coursing down his cheeks.

'Please, _please_ never forget, that it's you I love and want, but right now I am not free to decide.' John's voice grew even more insistent. 'Sherlock, listen. I want you to know that you will always have me. Do you hear me? Always!'

But then John's voice cracked and a sob escaped him. He let his head fall forward and buried his face in Sherlock's chest, who could feel the tremor of John's crying deep in his bones. He wrapped his arms around John's trembling body and held on, as tightly as he could, to his John, his love, his life. They were both holding on to each other like drowning men.

'It's my child,' John muttered after a while. '_Jesus_, I can't leave her alone with my child, can I?'

'I'm sure we'll think of something. Many couples separate, even though there are children. Shared custody. It's not the end of the world.'

'Yeah, well, I'm not one to shun my responsibilities.'

John broke their embrace, seemingly angry with him, and Sherlock finally understood.

'Oh! I see - she threatened you. If you don't stay with her, you'll never get to see your child.'

Sherlock could not see John in the darkness, but he sensed him nodding his consent. Ruffling his hands through his hair Sherlock started pacing the gravel path. _Oh, she was clever, this woman. Really clever!_ She had made out John's weak spot very quickly and exploited it ruthlessly.

'Are you sure it's your child?'

John snorted, 'As sure as I can be.'

Sherlock stopped in front of John and grabbed his hands. His voice was insistent, 'Let me help you. I'll investigate. I'm sure I'll find something on this Mary Morstan.'

'No!' John shook his head. 'She told me, and she was very clear about it, that if you don't leave her – and me – alone, she will leave without a trace and I will never see my child.'

Sherlock listened to what John said, heard the sadness and the finality behind his words, and he realised that he would have to work alone on this and that he had to be careful. But the thought that there might be leverage indeed, that Mary might have something to hide, ignited a tiny spark of hope in his heart.

On impulse he gathered John into one last embrace. 'It's all right, John,' he whispered. 'Don't worry.' And then they turned and slowly continued their walk through the dark park.

And for the first time since his world had shattered, Sherlock felt that maybe, maybe there was a way out of this mess.

* * *

**A/N**

If this chapter seems a bit unpolished it's due to the fact that my computer crashed yesterday and I could not access this chapter anymore (no backup either) and so I quickly had to write it again from memory. Since I did not want to let you wait for an update, I did the editing really quickly :)

And again, lots of tampering with timeline and facts here, but it has to be!

I hope you still like it, and I want to thank you for all your wonderful feedback and support. You really made my day and it would be lovely if you kept it up!

See you

JJ xx


	9. His Last Vow

**His Last Vow**

* * *

_What happened to him?_

He got shot

_Who shot him?_

* * *

John concentrated on his breathing - one, two, three – because this was something he had control over. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock's pale face, his current condition very critical and there was nothing at all John could do to help him. Panic was fluttering inside his chest like a crazed bird, mocking his outward calm. John allowed his gaze to quickly flicker to the little monitor next to Sherlock and back to his face and then back to the monitor – 'Sherlock, we're losing you'- and the bird inside him flapped his wings in an even more frantic fashion, the ugly sound of it almost making John faint.

The ambulance swerved and John was pushed against the side of the car, momentarily losing sight of the black monitor with the highly alarming blue lines and numbers.

'Dammit Sherlock, fight,' he pressed out between clenched teeth. 'Please don't give up, don't leave me. Not now. Please…'

**ooo**

The moment they told him that Sherlock was dead was surreal.

The young doctor with a long, lean face like a sad whippet, was mumbling something about the severity of the injury, assuring him that all had been done to save Mr Holmes, losing himself in endless medical jargon which was equally rude and helpless. But behind him the sudden flare of hectic flurry indicated that something was amiss. Then a nurse called the doctor back, her voice shrill and chiding. Calling him back to the room where Sherlock was fighting, no, clawing his way back to life.

Another moment, even more surreal, when the same doctor came back to tell him that Sherlock's heart had restarted and it truly was a miracle, he had never witnessed anything like this before, and if Dr Watson would please wait here until Mr Holmes was out of the operating theatre and stable enough and then a nurse would show him to the intensive care unit later.

Then the doctor turned on his heels, immediately forgetting him, and John just slumped down onto the floor and cried.

**ooo**

A friendly young nurse had brought newspapers and magazines. John was staring at them, scattered across his lap, he had no recollection of having read any of it yet. Absentmindedly he leafed through the top pages of a newspaper, but with an impatient sigh he let everything flutter to the floor. It was useless, he could not concentrate.

He sat up in the uncomfortable chair, certainly not designed to spent an entire night in, straightened his back and rolling his shoulders a few times he tried to loosen the cramped muscles. His glance fell on Sherlock's face. So very pale he was, paler even than the white hospital linen, his skin almost translucent. The black of his curls casting shadows onto his angular face, his eyes closed.

He was merely sleeping now, John knew very well, but seeing him like this, pale and still, brought back the horrific moment when the doctor had falsely declared him dead and John's world had collapsed.

He looked so fragile, so thin. Almost skeletal he had become in the last weeks. A shudder went down John's spine, a not so subtle reminder of the shame he felt. Shame because he had had no idea how bad Sherlock really was.

Yesterday, John had found Sherlock in the drug's den, pure coincidence actually that he had, but by God he had been angry with him. So outrageously angry that Sherlock would have been so bloody stupid and go back to drugs. Although evidently high on whatever he had taken, Sherlock had been quick to defend himself _– It's for a case, John!_ – but John had known it was true, that he had relapsed, and of course he knew why. John had felt so helpless and so ashamed and his response had been to lash out, to scream abuse and to call him a bloody idiot and much worse, whereas Sherlock had simply stood there and taken it.

Before this chance meeting they had not been in contact for over a month, ever since the wedding ceremony at the registrar's office in fact. Sherlock had been true to his word and had not attended this sad affair. Sad from John's point of view only, though. Mary had been _chuffed_, to say the least. John angrily shook his head to get rid of the mental image of his wife, a wife he did not love, a wife he was ready to leave. What was holding him back? Nothing.

With a sigh John wiped his hands over his tired eyes before he focused on Sherlock again, on his face, his naked torso, so vulnerable and yet so beautiful. Images of their first meeting and particularly of Sherlock sitting across him in that Chinese restaurant in Baker Street that first night flashed across his mind. The image of a young man, displaying confidence bordering on arrogance, mad and eccentric, a man who had fascinated him from the very first moment.

John leaned forward in his seat. Sherlock's face was still as beautiful, reminiscent of a dark angel, and right now his sleeping face looked young and peaceful. No sarcastic arching of the eyebrows – _Really, John?_ – No exasperation – _Do keep up!_ – No sarcasm, no sassiness, but sadly also no lopsided grin. The one John loved so much and which was only ever given to him.

John shakily inhaled and his chest felt close to bursting with all the emotions he had kept inside for so long. They needed out, even if he spoke them to a sleeping man, now was the moment to be open. He covered Sherlock's hand with his own and began to speak.

'You saved my life, do you know that? When we met, and you invited me to live with you, you completely turned my life around. I was lost, did not know where to turn, what to do with my life when I returned from Afghanistan. Who needs a retired army doctor with a limp and a tremor? But you needed me. You healed me - and you loved me and then you hurt me like no one ever had before.' John stopped and cleared his throat. 'And you know what? You are a liar, such a bloody liar. You told me there was no light and love in your heart, only darkness…,' John huffed and shook his head. Such lies, such pretense, such excuses, and he had believed him as much as he had believed his own lies. John leaned forward, wanting to be closer still. 'You have such a big heart and you are so full of love… and now we are here and all I want is to start again, do you hear me? Will you let me?'

John gently touched Sherlock's bare arm, his fingers caressing the smooth skin, and then he spoke the words which seemed the most important ones now.

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock. So sorry I was not there for you.'

John expected no reaction to his pleading words, of course not, but having spoken them felt as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. Sherlock's breathing was regular and deep, proof that he was sleeping and John tore his gaze away from his peaceful face to glance at his watch. It was half past three in the morning. All of a sudden he felt drained and drowsy, and he craved some sugar or a coffee to keep him going. He was loath to leave Sherlock, though, and so he moved the chair as close as he could to the hospital bed. Maybe he could find a bit of sleep. Later, there would certainly be moment when he could go and get some coffee.

**ooo**

'You won't tell him, Sherlock.'

John stopped dead in his tracks, right in front of Sherlock's room. The scalding coffee in the thin plastic cup burnt his hand and he transferred it the other. The next words were indistinguishable through the closed door, but the voice sounded familiar and John flinched when it rose above a whisper again. He _knew_ this voice.

'You won't tell John. Do you hear me?'

John sharply inhaled and slumping back against the wall he fought a panic attack which was threatening to overcome him – _Sherlock! Jesus, he is in there with_ … Fuelled by anger he pushed himself off the wall, ready to burst into the room, but the sound of this person approaching made him reconsider and he quickly hastened down the corridor, leaving the coffee on a shelf.

Instinctively John realised that it would be better to let the intruder leave unseen, and so he ducked inside the neighbouring room, where blueish darkness greeted him and the gentle snoring of a sleeping patient merged with the frantic beating of his own heart. Careful to avoid any noise John peered through the gap in the door.

Sure enough a flash of red passed him after a few seconds. John flinched as if he had been slapped – _You! I knew that it was you_ - Checking the intruder had really gone he left the room and ran down to Sherlock's room.

He found him awake in his bed, pale and visibly shaken, a single tear running down his cheek. 'Sherlock,' John leaned down and kissed him, carefully, not wanting to hurt him, but needing the reassuring contact right now.

'John,' Sherlock croaked, his voice hoarse from the intubation tube that had been removed during John's absence. He coughed and winced when the pain hit him.

'Are you in much pain?' John managed to hide his agitation, years of practice as a doctor helping him. 'We can give you more morphine.'

'Drugs attached right to me? How convenient.' Sherlock attempted a smile, but had to surrender to the pain and John adapted the influx of morphine to make it easier for him. Gently he touched his cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of his jaw. Sherlock was so fragile and yet so strong.

'You came back from the dead tonight,' John softly said. 'You flat-lined and you came back!'

'I think I told you before, John. I'm known to be indestructible.'

'So you say,' John nodded and smiled. But then his expression clouded over. 'That was…?' he motioned over his shoulder, indicating the unbidden guest from a moment ago.

'Yes,' Sherlock conceded.

'What did she want?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, gauging how much he already knew and what would come as a surprise.

'She threatened me.'

'Why?'

Sherlock did not answer at once and watched him as if assessing how far he could go. John found it hard to endure his exploring gaze for long. He nervously cleared his throat and averted his eyes. Sitting down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed gave him a moment to collect his thoughts.

'We haven't talked for a while, John.' Sherlock started, but hesitated and tried to adjust his position on the bed. He was too weak and John had to help him use the remote control to raise the mattress a fraction. 'We have not met in weeks. And you never called, so I assumed that's what you wanted, and I made myself believe that it was fine for me as well.' He left most of what he wanted to say unsaid, kept it inside, to be examined and maybe talked about at a later point. 'But I wasn't idle. I assumed time was of importance, so I talked to some of my sources in America, I used Mycroft's minions, and I managed to dig up a mountain of interesting facts. Oh, and Janine was a great help.'

'Janine? Mary's Janine?'

Sherlock nodded, and another wave of pain washed over his body. They both knew that he should rest, not talk. When he continued his voice sounded much weaker. 'Mary's not what you think she is. Not at all. But she was careful and clever, very clever. In fact she did everything in her power to hide what she is from you. Her training, her skills, her jobs, her past, her present.' Sherlock paused again to draw some breath before he continued. 'After I had found out what she is I was biding my time, waiting for the right moment. Tonight I threatened to expose her.' He hesitated. 'That's why she shot me.'

'She… _she _shot you?' John gasped, his hands flying to his face. He got up abruptly, the chair scratching shrilly over the linoleum and started pacing the small room. '_Jesus Christ_, Sherlock!' He stopped, pointing to the door. 'And just now, she came back to ensure your silence?'

Sherlock nodded.

John was trembling with rage and shame now. 'And I let her go! I saw her and I let her get _away_!'

'Mycroft will take care of her...' Sherlock softly said, but he was not sure if John had heard him.

_'Jesus_, Sherlock, I can't believe I did not see...'

'She was very cunning, John. She's trained to hide her emotions, her true identity. She's a professional.'

John looked at him, a wild expression in his eyes. '_What_ exactly is she?'

Sherlock's heart clenched painfully when he saw John's desperate face, but he knew he could not spare him now. 'A trained assassin.'

'Bloody _hell_!' John slumped down onto the chair again, he looked as if all will to live had left him, his face drained of colour. Biting his lip, he was staring into the void, and eventually he covered his face with his hands. He needed a moment of silence at least, possibly much more than that to grasp what had happened.

'I'm sorry about the baby, John.' Sherlock eventually said.

'Yeah…' John nodded. 'Miscarriage, two weeks ago.' His body language spoke of defeat, of exhaustion, and his face was a mask. Sherlock was well aware that all this information must come as a shock, an awful lot to compute in a few minutes, whereas he himself had had weeks to get to the heart of the matter.

'Please don't mourn your unborn child, John.' Sherlock softly said. 'If it helps you, I can tell you that she was never pregnant.'

John looked up, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock. '_What_? - How? How can you possibly know that?'

'Janine. She was a great help. Not Mary's best friend in fact, and very cunning as well, believe me. She snooped around in Doctor Gupta's files.' Sherlock's voice was weak, but he tried to be insistent, John needed to see. 'Mary Watson or Mary Morstan, has never been pregnant. She used this lie to bind you to her and to make you abandon me. And of course neither Mary nor Morstan are her real names - it annoys me, but I have not yet found the name she was actually born with. Over the past twenty years she has used various IDs. Professionally she's known as A.G.R.A. Worked for the CIA apparently before she went freelance…'

'Stop it!' John hissed, pressing his hands against his ears. 'Stop it! I don't want to hear any more about her.' The ensuing silence was heavy with things unsaid and questions unasked, but then John looked up. 'That's why you asked me to come with you to Magnusson's office tonight, you _knew_ she'd be there.'

'Yes. I knew she wanted to face Magnusson. Persuade him to hand over all the incriminating information he had on her. It would have been a perfect moment for you to see what she's like.' Sherlock's speech was becoming slightly slurred and John's heart clenched. 'But she was clever and punished Janine for helping me, knocked her out, caused a distraction. As a doctor, naturally, you would stay with Janine and I had to face her alone …'

Sherlock closed his eyes because pain threatened to overwhelm him. He groaned.

'Sherlock,' John was next to him in an instant. 'What's wrong?'

He checked the monitor which showed an alarmingly increased heart rate. Worried he pressed the buzzer to alert the nurse. 'The nurse will be here in a moment. Don't worry.'

'No,' Sherlock pressed out between gritted teeth. 'No, I want … you … just you…'

'I'm here.' John took his hand which was clammy to the touch and leaned down to kiss the palm of his hand. 'I am here, love. And I promise I will never leave you again.'

**oooOOOooo**

'Here it is!' John shouted the moment he entered 221B and bounded up the stairs to their flat.

Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading. 'Hm?'

Slightly out of breath, John threw his jacket onto the sofa and unfolded a sheet of official-looking paper. Triumphantly he waved it in front of Sherlock's face.

'John, stop playing around and just tell me what it is!' Sherlock pretended to be angry, but the twinkle in his eyes told them both differently.

'I'm free, Sherlock! _We_ are free!' John clenched his fists and jumped up and down like an overexcited puppy. Sherlock let the book sink to his lap and smiled.

'I know. Mycroft texted me the moment you left his office.'

'Oh?' John stopped jumping and turned around to face Sherlock. 'Not a surprise then.' He looked a bit peeved and Sherlock's smile intensified. 'Takes a bloody Holmes to properly spoil a surprise, doesn't it.'

Sherlock got up and walked over to John. Smothering his partner's grumpiness in an embrace he whispered into John's ear. 'Doesn't mean I'm not delighted. And seeing you jump around in that – um - childlike manner was quite a treat.'

'We're free!' John repeated, his irritation already forgotten. 'The annulment of marriage is through. I'm a happily _unmarried_ celibate man!'

'Told you it would be child's play! A fake birth certificate never makes convincing evidence, neither does being an assassin and besides…'

'Shut up, you git,' John interrupted him. 'We've better things to do than discussing legal details. Don't you think a little celebration is in order?'

'Right you are,' Sherlock conceded, cupping John's delightful backside with both his hands and drawing him as close as possible. '_Bloody_ right you are.'

'Cursing, Sherlock?'

'Shut up!'

The lopsided smile accompanying this command made John's heart jump in his chest, and he wanted nothing more than to preserve this moment, to be able to enjoy it every day for the rest of his life.

Overwhelmed John touched Sherlock's face, gently brushing his fingers over his lips and Sherlock closed his eyes in response. He was so responsive to touch, and right now he reacted to this gentle teasing by lightly biting John's index finger and then sucking it into his mouth. The look he gave John was downright sinful, dark, knowing and so beautiful. His hands fisted the front of John's shirt and pulled him closer, and when his lips released John's finger it was with a plop, leaving it wet and pulsating.

His eyes never left John's face when he pushed him backwards against the door and kept him there, pinning his body against the hard wooden boards. John chuckled and slipped the beige dressing gown off Sherlock's shoulders, making a mental note to get rid of it. He'd never liked it, it was part of Sherlock's solitary life and it needed to go.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back, content to let John do all the work, letting him undress him down to his pyjama pants. He rewarded John's efforts with kisses to his lips, his cheeks, sucking lightly on his earlobes, leaving a trail of sweet bites and kisses down his neck.

'What do you want from me?' He whispered against John's skin, his hot breath making John shiver.

'I want you to take me apart,' John panted.

'Good,' Sherlock's voice was low, designed to leave John weak and helpless. John's forehead fell forward against Sherlock's naked chest, enjoying the closeness, the warmth. He widened his nostrils the better to inhale Sherlock's scent which was lemony and fresh, mingled with the raw scent of his arousal, heady and all his. John closed his eyes and his lips found skin, a long, slender neck, his chest, his scar. Reverently he traced the outline of it with his tongue. A sharp intake of breath made him stop.

'Uncomfortable?'

'A bit.'

'Sorry.'

John placed one last tender kiss on the bullet scar and straightened his back. Their eyes met and they both smiled, secure and happy. John looked down to where their hands touched and intertwined their fingers, and then he led Sherlock to their bedroom.

**ooo**

Sherlock turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Sunlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains and illuminated the dancing dust motes in their bedroom. Judging from the fading light it must be late afternoon.

A smile slowly spread over Sherlock's face, laughter was bubbling up inside his chest and he had to bite his lips to stop himself from laughing out loud. He was happy!

Happy that John was his, officially and finally and forever. Happy because living with John - now, tomorrow, forever - was like a rainy Sunday morning, filled with work and mugs of tea and reading the morning newspaper, or a breathless chase through London's back alleys, or following an exciting trail for days on end, it was all that and so much more - It was his life. And Sherlock knew that John felt the same.

Again, laughter bubbled up inside him, now mixing with a strange tightness in his chest, and Sherlock scoffed. Granted, happy he was, but also soppy and close to tears and… for God's sakes, why must sentiment be such a tiresome concept, leaving him all vulnerable and weak? But - to be loved was such bliss, and Sherlock was more than willing to take the occasional soppiness, the odd awkward moment, when it meant that John was his.

He turned onto his side and watched the man who was his world. John was lying on his stomach, his face turned away from Sherlock and seemingly still sleeping, worn-out, his skin flushed and slightly gleaming with sweat.

'I love you, John Watson,' he whispered and leaned towards him. 'You… only you… always you.'

He brushed his lips over John's biceps, feeling the muscles flex in response to his light touch. John turned around and smiled at him, a lovely tired smile.

'I love you too,' he whispered and Sherlock gathered John into an embrace, fierce and possessive, wrapping his legs around John's, his arms around his waist, and clung to him, almost desperate in his need. When Sherlock kissed him, there was nothing gentle about it, it was a claim, a statement, and John understood all too well.

'I will never leave you again,' John whispered between kisses. 'Never.'

Sherlock did not answer, just drew back a bit and looked at him with those intense bright eyes, and then he nodded, believing him and promising the same in return. They kissed again, gentler kisses now, ones speaking of love and familiarity, and when Sherlock started to move his hips, he did it ever so slowly, taking his time, because there obviously was no need to rush things.

Not now, and never again.

**ooo The End ooo**

* * *

**A/N**

That's it! The boys are together and happy (and Mary will get what a liar, trained assassin and murderer deserves. I am certain Mycroft will make sure of that!)

Thank you so much for all your support – comments, reviews, messages, kudos, alerts, bookmarks – Your feedback really is what makes me want to write (and the urge to give Sherlock and John a fluffy, happy and sentimental ending, of course!)

A special **thank you** goes to: MapleleafCameo, Godiva33, WitchRavenFox, coleys17, FoxyLady40, Sophie Claire, Autumn Moon Fae, MadDragon13, beemoh, Cantuono, RlyiehChosenOfBane, Sheepdog20 … and everybody else who gave me feedback in any way.

Please forgive me should I have forgotten to add your name …

See you soon, I guess?!

JJ xx

P.S.: Happy Easter! (If you go for this kind of thing … as Mycroft would put it)


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